Prologue

“Gabriel”

No one saw a man in a black cloak swoop down from the sky and land skidding in the Arizona dust.

No one except for the resident of 1234 Nowhere Lane, as he came to call it. The tiny shack in the middle of the desert was more then ‘off the beaten path’. Not a single police station, street, or rest stop within a fifty mile radius. Sylar liked it that way, knew it was the safest possible thing he could do. Of course, it’s not like he had anything but instinct to tell him what was secure or not. Sylar’s memory only went back three years.

Three years after November 8^th, 2006.

Today, Sylar poked a single birthday candle into a general store Little Debbie cake. Having no knowledge of his age, or birthday, he simply used the anniversary of his awakening as a marker. Even trying to roughly guesstimate his age was futile. Clean shaven and shock haired, he was 28. With the thick stubble and bags under his eyes, like today, he could pass for 40. 

His biggest theory was that he actually only had three years under his belt, and escaped from a genetic engineering factory. Perhaps he’d just watched The Island too many times, one of the few movies he owned, but Sylar saw a lot of proof. Waking up in the sewers, having no idea who he was or where he’d come from, his English at a third grade level. Then, he soon discovered that the police were apparently after him too, for some odd reason. Perhaps to take him back to the lab.

Mostly, the hypothesis blossomed when he started discovering that he was…special.

Sylar had real English under his belt in one day. He simply leafed through a manual of the language at his local library, and just remembered everything he read. Super memory, which he felt an unhumorous irony in. Amnesiac Rain Man.

Then, over the course of the next year, Sylar began moving things without touching them whenever his emotions flared up. These manifestations kept coming, until the man was aware of over half a dozen abilities. Clearly, it made him unique.

Until that one bastard fell out of the sky with such ease and gracefulness, that Sylar’s stomach churned in hatred already.

The trechcoated man, who looked like he was barely past teenagehood, actually, sauntered over to the front door of the shack. Haughtiness and the epitome of cool all wrapped up in one moseying young man.

Sylar set down his makeshift birthday cake, glaring through the grimy, broken, kitchen window. As the visitor approached, Sylar got a better view, evoking a smirk. Though he was a fancy flyer, the guy was six inches shorter than Sylar himself, and thin as a rail. The raven preacher’s coat tried to mask it by leaving some things to the imagination, but a pair of brown eyes that investigated it from inside the house could see how things work.

No knocking. Sylar jumped a little when he heard the front door slam open, dust dirtying the tattered “Welcome!” mat even more.

“Sylar!” hollered the stranger, hands on his hips confidently. The other man hid out in his kitchen, eyes fixed on the steel refrigerator. A reflection of the low sun, specifically a fractional solar eclipse today, gleamed on the front.

Sylar came to his senses and shuffled around, looking for some kind of blunt object to ward off the outsider. A shovel rusted in the corner, and Sylar gripped the handle between his large fists. Though the thoughts in the back of his mind were violent, his actions could never reflect that. Sylar was a coward, and he already knew that the shovel wouldn’t get a drop of blood on it.

“I know you’re in here,” continued the invader, starting to pace the front ‘room’. A thoughtful crease slashed between two dark, but well-groomed eyebrows. Sylar’s dislike flamed even more, thinking of his own brows, ridiculously thick and black.

The man in the coat crossed his arms over his chest and let out a melodramatic sigh. He flicked his wrist, and a glass on the wooden coffee table flew across the room.

“Okay, no use hiding anymore,” he announced bluntly. “You’re right in front of me, I know it. And thanks for giving me that power back, by the way. It’s been a bitch living without your telekinesis.”

Curiosity got the best of him. Sylar, still armed with the shovel that’s head was so rusty it threatened to fall right off the handle, stepped out of his hiding place. His visitor smirked triumphantly.

“What kept you back there? Usually you’re balls out trying to kill me.”

Frowning, Sylar still held onto the wood tightly. Though he already felt a streak of distaste for the outsider, the man was still a stranger and Sylar didn’t actually have the nerve to really hurt anyone.

“Kill you? I don’t know you,” he replied emotionlessly.

His bewilderment was met with a scoff. “Don’t know me? The same Peter Petrelli you tried to rip the skull off of? That’s a new one. But I’m all for a nice chat, if that’s what you really want.”

“Who are you?” demanded Sylar abruptly, standing to his full height and towering over the other man. “What are you doing in here? Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” But though the anger was there, his voice still cracked on the high notes. He also vaguely recognized Peter’s last name as the same as the president’s, but made no inquiry about it. Petrelli was probably a common name.

Peter cocked his head a bit, staring at the shack’s native with a shifting expression. Then, it settled into bafflement.

“You telling the truth,” he whispered, for once not the mighty rogue. “You really don’t remember anything, do you, Sylar?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Well, how do you know it? You just said you had no memory,” Peter pointed out sharply.

Sylar rubbed his left wrist involuntarily, right above his black-banded watch. It was almost embedded onto his skin; he never took it off. That watch was the only sign of identity he knew of. When Sylar awoke in the sewers, he carried no ID, money, anything. The only thing he noticed was this stupid, broken watch, and in a twisted way, he related to it. He was broken too, missing a chunk of himself, a piece of his life. Or, if his genetic experiment theory was correct, a piece of his humanity.

On the watch face read the word “Sylar,” and the amnesiac thought it was as good a name as any to go by.

He repeated as much to Peter, and then expected a reply for his question in return. The invader did not grant it.

“So you don’t remember me, Kirby Plaza, anything?”

“Who’s Kirby?”

Peter rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Kirby Plaza is the name of a place. The place where we fought and you tried to blow up New York.”

Sylar almost laughed. In fact, he did. It started as a low chuckle in the base of this throat, then cresendoed into full belts of amusement. Peter stared on, now the indignant one.

“What’s so funny about that?” he snapped.

“You’re kidding. You actually expect me to believe that?” Sylar pffted. “I’m not a murderer. I might not remember a lot about my life, but I’m not a killer!”

Now Peter’s face turned to one of scorn. “If only you knew.”

Sylar’s stomach dropped like a lead ball for a split second, before remembering that Peter was clearly a rival from his past, and could totally take advantage of him. For all he knew, Peter could have been the serial killer, and Sylar the victim on the run.

“What did you mean by…you missed my telekinesis?” The cogwheels in his brain connected the dots to reveal an outline of empathy. “You can do what I can do?”

Almost reluctantly, Peter nodded. "Yeah, permanently. I had your abilities until three years ago, when I exploded. I had to start from scratch after that.”

“Exploded?” Sylar arched an eyebrow and finally set down his shovel, sensing calm in his new acquaintance’s voice. Perhaps, rather then a brawl starter, Peter could be a fountain of knowledge.

“Sit down,” he muttered, gesturing to one of the raggedy western chairs. “I think we probably have a lot to talk about.”

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“B-brothers?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t exactly smiling when I heard about it, either,” Peter grumbled back, running a hand over his crew cut.

Sylar took a long swig of tea to drown the lump in his throat. “Er…how…how did you find out?”

“Buddy of yours; Mohinder Suresh,” Peter replied languidly, and from his tone, Sylar could suspect that the term ‘buddy’ was used in sarcasm. “He has both our DNA samples. A couple months ago, he stumbled across a similarity between them. After some research and experiments, it all fit.”

“Are we twins or just…,” Sylar leaned forward, trailing off.

“Dunno. I’d ask how old you are, but with your memory, you probably don’t know.”

“You’re right,” Sylar admitted. “Not a clue.”

“I’m twenty-nine, if that helps,” Peter shrugged. “And you’re probably younger.” He snorted a little. “Funny. I was always used to being the little brother to Nathan.”

“Nathan…” Sylar recalled Peter’s last name, this time with more curiosity. “…Petrelli? So you are related to the president?”

Peter nodded grimly. “Well, used to be, fortunately. He’s one of us too, the filthy traitor.”

“What exactly is one of us?” Sylar squinted, his minor vision problem becoming more evident.

“I told you; he’s a traitor!” cried Peter matter-of-factly. “He was good for a while, but I think America’s

‘Nathan Petrelli: The Hero That Saved New York!’ act went to his head. Ever since he got into the White House…” Peter halted himself before delving into the rant resting on the tip of his tongue.

Sylar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Peter didn’t answer his question at all. “But why is he so bad? I really don’t stay in tuned to the news, way out here.”

Peter nearly smacked his forehead. “Uh, the laws? Against people with powers? Didn’t you hear? We’re not allowed to breed, and now they’re talking about starting a branding method. Then after that, we’ll be rounded up like animals, experimented on…God only knows what.”

“There are more of us?” Sylar’s eyes widened. Peter shook his head in disbelief.

“You really don’t get out much, do you?”

Sylar ignored him. “So are we some sort of experiment? Test tube babies they bred to have powers?”

“More like natural selection’s bitch, actually,” Peter answered, scoffing. “Mohinder says it’s all evolution.”

Peter’s newfound brother sat back in the chair, eyes glazing over somewhat. All this time, he’d thought he was so right on all his assumptions. But in reality, Sylar had no more idea who he was then three years ago when he woke up in a storm drain. The only constant was the ticking of his broken watch, always moving, but never budging from seven minutes to midnight.

“What are you doing here?” asked Sylar simply, for the umpteenth time.

Peter shrugged, and the harsh lines on his face softened. For a moment, Sylar wondered if this was his brother’s real personality poking through, and the snark was just a mask, a defense mechanism. Peter’d already admitted that he wasn’t expecting tea and cookies. Best to walk into enemy territories with your big guns forward.

 “I wanted to tell you about…the brother thing.” A wave of loneliness and confusion saturated him for a spilt second. “See if you knew anything about who I am, where I came from…kinda stupid, huh; going to someone who I thought was gonna kill me.” A quirky smile came to his lips. “I guess I know how Claire felt.”

Sylar took notice of the special glint in Peter’s brown eyes, his brown eyes, and shyly asked, “Claire?”

“This sweet kid…she was my niece for a couple years, but…” He paused, and small sigh came over him. “Not anymore.”

Peter’s aura went from dreamy to serious. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about. I have no idea what I’m thinking and Hiro’s gonna murder me…but seeing as this is going better then I thought it would, I figure I’ll offer it up to you.”

Sylar frowned. “And?”

“You don’t remember Hiro Nakamura?”

“Er…no…”

“Good; it’s probably better you don’t. Hiro and I know that Nathan’s gonna get out of hand with these laws. Soon, people like us will be locked up all across the country, maybe even the world. The normals are afraid of what they don’t understand, and they’ll fight as hard as they can to keep us at bay. So me and Hiro are starting to get some people together. When all hell breaks lose in a couple years, we’ll be there to retrieve our kind from captivity. But we’re gonna need the most powerful people we can find, and though I’m not too excited about asking you to join us…you still have a ton of abilities…”

“You want me to,” -Sylar paused, weighing the monologue he just head-, “join you?”

Peter cringed and took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

Sylar rubbed the farmer’s tan on his arms, bronzed from the desert sun. “I dunno, I’m not a fighter or anything-,”

“What else are you gonna do?” Peter suddenly snapped fiercely. “Sit out here and rot in this cabin? You should be out there doing something; I mean, look at all of your powers!”

Sylar scooted his chair back a tad off the other man’s sudden outburst. “What’s in it for you?” he peered apprehensively.

The energy seemed to leave Peter’s wiry frame all at once. “I never really got to save the world,” he finally confessed softly. “I tried for a month, but Nathan showed up and saved the day and…I thought I knew what I was meant for, but when that happened, I was right back to where I started.”

Sylar frowned and remained mute for a short while before responding. “At least you have a purpose to find.”

Peter’s eyes flitted up and gazed back intently. “You can have one too, if you want. You had to be given a clean slate for some reason.”

None of Peter’s other attempted persuasions stirred Sylar quite like this one. He had been given a second chance at life. What else was it for, but to turn the murderer, or whatever he was in the past, into a savior? And it’s not like he would be rescuing damsels by roasting in a shack in the middle of nowhere till the end of his days…

“I’m in.”

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