2007-07-31: All Monsters Here


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Summary: The Petrelli brothers meet for the first time in a while. Everyone in the room is a monster.

Dark Future Date: July 31st, 2009

All Monsters Here

Penthouse Suite — Washington DC

The radio switched off, the TV switched off, the only sound in the shadowy penthouse suite is that of Nathan talking into his phone, pacing between the bedroom and the living area, restless. He's dressed down for the evening, jacket and tie abandoned, leaving slacks and a crisp white shirt in place, shoes still on his feet. "No, I'm not expecting to stay in New York City long," he says, impatiently. "If it goes my way, no one will even notice I was there."

He's alone in the room, but when you're President, you're never truly alone. Security guards pace outside - two of them in this hallway, and countless more throughout the building, watching the corners that need to be watched. Most are dressed as civilians, but the ones outside his door are in smart black suits, and happen to be identical - they bear a startling resemblance to a man now known as Jaden Walters. They stand solemnly, awaiting orders or danger.

"You know what?" Nathan is saying, moving to close his window curtains after fleetingly glancing outside, then his own reflection. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, maybe by then we'll be on the same page." And click, he hangs up.

Good time to hang up, before all hell breaks loose.

There's a shift in the air, a shimmer really. It isn't the instant popping teleportation of a time travel, but more like dissolving into reality. Closer in appearance to becoming visible when he'd been invisible— An ability he picked up during the war, allows for some blind forms of teleport, as long as a basic area is known. And it'd been known, in a sense.

Standing in the room, Peter Petrelli raises a hand and points first at the windows, and the door— they vanish. The wall filling in with plain white wash. A second gesture towards the phone, which also vanishes as if it'd never been there.

"We need to talk, Nathan." Deeper voice than normal, pushed through a lot in the years. And those poor guards outside? They won't hear a sound.

Out his periphery, Nathan sees something come into focus, sees the air shimmer like a heat wave, but by the time he can even turn to see the teleporter, things just start disappearing. He steps away from the disappeared window, snaps his gaze towards the disappeared door, and his empty hand then gets a long look, but— nope, nothing. Unfortunate. Otherwise, he'd be only one button away from the secret service pouring into the room. Nathan's arm drops to his side, and he looks at Peter, a scowl already pulling at his mouth. Disdain, anger. "What do you want, Peter," he says, the question dropped to a statement.

"I'm here to make you aware of something you seem to have forgotten…" Peter keeps a distance, the same look of disdain and anger returned right back at his brother— only there's actually a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth, rather than a scowl. "She's mine. The only reason I'm not here to kill you, is because she told me not to. But if anything happens to her— or if you keep sending her messages— or threatening her in any way— I might have a temporary lapse of hearing."

Distance is good. In fact, Nathan makes more of it - not quite backing up, but pacing across the room in a way that adds more space between them. His stroll, his stance, is deceptively casual, hands in his pockets. "So I guess she went to cry to you over Suresh," he says. "Here was me thinking she'd appreciate sharing his last moments. Look. Let's get one thing straight - as long as she keeps showing up where I can see her, calling me, I will react. Maybe this is a conversation you should be having with her."

Distance is good, but it really doesn't matter, does it? "You think you're scary, don't you?" Peter asks, keeping his distance as he puts his own hands into the pockets of his long black trenchcoat. It's not cold outside, yet he still wears it. "I spent my whole life looking up to a man I thought was greater than any other— and look at you now. President of the United States of America… and a pale imitation. Your speeches say you love your family like you do your country— and I believe that is accurate." Now, he does return one hand outside of his coat, and he points the hand at his brother, fingers pressed together. "This world is made of monsters, Nathan. And I want to remind you… that you're not the scariest monster in this room." His fingers spread suddenly— there's a ripping sound, blood splattering across the room where his brother is, and there's a huge gaping hole in his brother's stomach, like something blew up there. People can live for a good amount of time with this kind of wound.

Odd, the way some sensations come to you before the others. Nathan hears the sound first, sees the splatter of blood, then a pain quite unlike anything he's ever felt before - including the nuclear blast in the sky so many years ago. Not worse, never worse than that, just… different. Shocking. Hands clasping to the wound, Nathan is completely silent, even as he staggers down to his knees. "You…" He takes in a breath, trying to get his head straight. "You have all that power, Peter. Handed to you on a fucking platter. You don't even have a clue as to what the hell to do with it. At least some of us…" That draws a moment of laughter from him. "…had plans."

The distance that he'd maintained is lessened now. Peter takes slow steps forward, and kneels down in front of his brother with the gapping wound he tries to hold in. Arms rest on his knees, and he looks into his brother's eyes, that vague hint of a smile remaining in the corner of his mouth. "Are you actually jealous of me? At least in terms of power— power you denied— until you used it for your own gain— power you don't deserve." His voice is whispered, but still easily audible to his brother. "Maybe I didn't deserve it either— but you're wrong about one thing… I have a plan. Always did." Reaching up, he touches his brother's face, much as he would have done years ago. "Right now my plan is simple. You hurt my wife again— I don't care if she's right in front of you— or calling you— hurt her again, everything you've built… will disappear." It could be an empty threat— before it might have been, but apparently there was a line.

Beads of sweat begin to line his brow, the corners of his vision blurring, twisting slightly. It's not even the pain, it's the idea of the pain, of the injury itself, that threatens to floor Nathan. Bloods soaks his white shirt, his hands, his pants and the ground beneath him. Despite this, he maintains eye contact, gaze almost wild with hatred. He jerks his head away from the touch, unwilling to lift his hands to block it. "Message received," he gasps out, though somehow defiant when he concedes this. "That's all you can do, wreck things. That's all you're good for. At least I had to work for it."

"You rode on the shoulders of what others did— don't pretend otherwise," Peter draws his hand away from his brother's face, and the pain disappears. The blood splatter disappears. The rips in his clothes vanish. All part of the game. "I should let you go— I have to get back to my wife. And you have to explain to America what happened to your face." What happened to his face?

He's trying to remain stoic, but he can't help it - he gasps in relief when the pain lessens, the show over, eyes shutting for a brief few moments. His hands clench in his now spotless shirt before finally letting go, pushing himself up from the ground in a stagger. Then freezing. Good question. Nathan doesn't want to give Peter the satisfaction of watching him search for it— but it's impossible. He brings a hand up in an effort to find the reason for that statement.

Rising as well, Peter gets to his feet, that hint of a smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. At the first touch, there's no sign of anything at all different. Not even increased stubble, or pain. But what he was talking about becomes clear a moment later. Once again he flicks his hand, and sends his brother flying face first into a wall.

Nathan'll get the joke later. That's for certain. The world tips uncontrollably and the next thing he knows, he's crumpled in a pile of limbs on the carpeted ground, leaving only a blood smear on the white wall he was just thrown against. He groans roughly, fighting against the current of unconsciousness, and in a way, it takes him under. But not quite. Rolling onto his side, his face stingingly numb, breathing pain and blood, he stretches out a hand. "Peter," he mumbles.

"How do you like this world you've made?" Peter asks, straightening his coat with his hands and taking a step back, pretty much ignoring the outstretched hand. The smile's gone, though, his expression grave, a hint of a grimace. Doesn't last long, because as he appeared, he disappears. The door, the window… even the phone all reappear, though it's laying on the floor a distance away now. The only thing that remains is the blood on the wall, the paint left from the impact. And those guards outside wouldn't have heard a thing… not even the impact on the wall.

Alone. Blessedly so. That hand drops down back against the floor and Nathan knows he needs to call security, alert them of his brother's presence, even if he might be miles away now by now— god, just— someone. But the phone is far away, far enough, and his head is swimming. Unbeknownst to the world, the President falls unconscious. The security guards outside wait for danger.

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