Hey y'all :):):).
Yes, I am obsessed with the Petrellis - I can't help it hehehe. I actually need to have them both appear at least once in all of my fics (and although Nathan has a very small part in this, he's still there! =P)
I was watching 'Five Years Gone' from Season 1 the other day and was looking at how different future Peter is to sweet, adorable present Peter. I love future Peter because of his 'bad-boy' attitude and his scar is amazing!
So, I decided to write a fic about how sweet, adorable present Peter transitioned to cool, kickass future Peter and when he made the conscious thought to change.
Summary: It was like standing on the edge of the earth, staring at the abyss beyond. In the aftermath of the explosion wanders a broken man with the sad realisation: he couldn't be the good guy anymore.
I hope you all enjoy it!!! =D.
30 Seconds To Mars - Edge Of The Earth.
Nightwish - Amaranth.
The silence buried itself deep within his consciousness: a bitter reminder of the absence of chattering voices that had once resided there. Dust and ashes, swirled about his slim legs, casting a shimmering mirage as it twirled higher around his body.
He stared at the dust in fascination, his bloodied fingers reaching out tenderly. The glittering silver layer brushed gently over his skin, sinking into his clothes and finding sanctuary.
A sigh whispered past his chapped and torn lips, and he raised his heavy head. Tears twinkled within his deep eyes, but he didn't allow any to fall.
He couldn't patronise the dead with his tears.
Stepping tentatively, he weaved his way through the destruction, forcing himself not to look too closely in fear of what he would truly see. The ashes clung to him as he moved: a cape of agony and death flittering behind him. It was a sadistic image of the typical hero he had once tried to be…
Glass crunched underfoot, and with each crack he winced. The thoughts of bones being snapped cleanly in two and tender flesh ripping cruelly apart flashed in his mind and he swallowed convulsively.
He was a monster.
Hunching his shoulders, his long hair flicking incessantly across his face, he walked deeper into the horror, never once shutting his tired eyes. He had to see it for himself – see what he had created.
It was like standing on the edge of the earth, staring at the abyss beyond.
Whispers of a dead city echoed in his mind and he tried, desperately, to listen to them. It was all he had left to offer them now.
A poster flittered ahead of him, twisting and turning in the hollow breeze. The bottom corner was still alight, tiny flames licking greedily at the air, hungry for more destruction. He saw the sentence that stood boldly out on the paper and stepped back as it landed in front of him.
'Vote Nathan Petrelli.'
The plan had worked.
New York had been annihilated for the "greater good" and now, Nathan could be the hero everyone needed. In the end, the world would win and become stronger and yet, did nobody question if the cost was too great?
He knew Nathan Petrelli's name well, remembered its importance to him, but his own remained a silent mystery. He didn't want to speak his own name, to label himself as human. Because he wasn't – no human could be capable of this and humanity couldn't be so heartless by allowing him to cause such a catastrophe.
Saying nothing, he stepped carefully over the poster, the rags of his trousers brushing dangerously against the flame. He stumbled onwards, the charred buildings looming brokenly overhead. There were no paths beneath his feet, only ruins.
He couldn't even be sure how many bodies lay beneath his wandering feet.
Pain registered somewhere dully at the back of his mind, but he pushed it to the back of his mind. People had died here today, because of him. He didn't deserve to feel anything.
The world seemed to be spinning out of control and he gasped, the truth of the situation hitting him full force. He lost his footing, collapsing weakly against what appeared to be the remains of a taxi. His heart was racing in his chest and he clutched the ruined metal tightly, trying to see clearly again.
The overwhelming urge to sob crushed upon him but he forced it away. Murderers didn't cry for their victims.
Feet dragging, catching on the endless pieces of debris that lay scattered along his way, he made his walk of judgement. He was hoping that somehow, somewhere, someone would appear from the wreckage. He wanted to see them breathe and prove they were really alive. He needed to hear them scream in terror, scream at him.
Hugging his arms across his chest, once again tripping as his head spun, he realised how much he wanted to be blamed. He needed to have someone tell him it was his fault, to make him pay for what he had done. The silence was killing him – he had to be called a murderer.
Overall, he needed closure.
If he was called a monster, he could be treated and killed like one. But the lack of speech, no accusatory statements of roars of anger, left him in uncertainty. There were no words to claim him to be evil, and yet none to remove him of blame.
He didn't know: was he an angel, or was he a monster?
The taunting vertigo struck swiftly, his knees buckling as he fell to the floor. Ashes exploded around him as he hit, protecting their creator as despair claimed him. Glass stabbed through his ruined clothes, the shards poking through skin and bone to nestle deep within his kneecaps. His hands clenched by his sides as he blinked upwards, staring at the sky.
Frowning, he didn't understand how the sky could be so clear, so blue and pure whereas everything below was tainted. They were living in chaos, but above they would be free. Was death truly a release?
Can we all gain the wings to fly when we die?
He wondered if he should pray, his position already preparing him to do so. It was beyond him though: how could there be a higher power, a God when all this had happened?
Swaying, dizziness took hold and he struggled to make his eyes stay open. He watched a haze of smoke begin to layer the sky above, hiding his freedom from him. He wasn't allowed an escape, not so easily. He had to live so that he could suffer for what he had done.
Allowing his hands to slacken, they lay limply beside him, fingers touching what remained of the ground beneath him. A stray bloody tear cut through the soot that clung to his skin, washing the darkness away only to replace it with a deep red stain.
No more tears fell after that.
He knew he couldn't cry anymore. He couldn't be who he once was: a weak man whose compassion would always rule him. He had trusted his family too much and been blinded by his love for them. Their plan was successful because of him. Until the very end, he had placed his faith in them and had only seen the truth after it was too late.
Breathing heavily, agony sparking between his eyes again, he watched as the sky steadily vanished above him, hazy shadows impairing his already failing sight. He tilted back unsteadily, eyes still locked above.
He couldn't be the good guy anymore.
He had to change if he wanted the chance to redeem himself. There could be no more empathic compassion and no more heroic acts to be performed. They had all resulted in the same thing: hurting the people he loved. He would become cold and empty, until one day redemption would call for him and he could answer, knowing that he had to strength to fight back.
A silhouette cut into the sky, distorted by the layer of ash that coveted the ruins of a once great city. He stared at it in fascination as it swooped closer, free from the destruction he had caused below.
Dimly, a voice filtered into his shattered mind, screaming a name from the heavens. He shook his head, the movement igniting dizziness that caused him to keel over completely backwards. Head thumping against the floor, he laid there awkwardly, tremors violently ravaging his thin frame.
Stay away, he warned, blinking upwards as the angel glided towards him. Stay away…
A shaking exhale whispered from his lips and he tilted his head to the side. Glancing blurrily at a large shard of glass that had buried itself into the earth beside him, he found himself studying the person within it.
He didn't recognise his own reflection. The glassy eyes that stared back at him were empty, lacking what he had known to always be there before. Hope… Love… Faith… They were all gone.
He frowned, fiery agony ripping through his brow. Wincing, tentatively opening scrunched eyelids, he gazed in fascination at the diagonal slice that ran between his eyes. It still bled violently and, he realised, it appeared to be the only thing on his entire body that had not healed.
A bitter smile graced his lips at that. Good. He didn't want it to heal – he wanted to be reminded of what he had done this day, to always strive for forgiveness even if he could never truly be granted it. He needed the pain and the scars of what he had caused to last forever.
Head spinning, the reflection no longer grinning back at him, he glanced back towards the skies. The dark figure had arrived, dropping with a thud to the ground and racing towards him. The face was familiar as it appeared before him, hazel eyes tearful and horrified.
The lips moved and he concentrated on them, the sound dulled to his ringing ears.
He wanted to tell him "no", but he couldn't speak. Oblivion had finally chosen to grant him a reprieve and he accepted it willingly, fading into darkness. He had unwillingly set the world on a new path, like a ripple effect that he couldn't control. When he awoke, things would be different. He would be different.
I'm not your Peter anymore…
Please review and let me know what you think!!! :):):).
Thanks for reading!
Hugs, Ami-Rose x x x x x ;).