2007-07-28: DF: The Future is Made of Monsters

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Summary: Appearing from space and time with the intent to change the future, Peter and Hiro part ways; Peter finds New York two years from his time to be a dark and confusing place.

Dark Future Date: July 28th, 2009

The Future is Made of Monsters


Times Square, New York

A city. The city. New York. It's dark; it must be well into the night. The fact that it's New York is obvious because this is Times Square, but it's unlike any Times Square anyone is likely to have seen before… except for the people who live here. Here and now.

The flashing neon and rampant advertising is lacking; in their place, flyers plaster every available surface, many torn off and pasted on again, over and over. Broken electric adverts showing dead screens hang high in the sky affixed to buildings. Most of them are crumbling, ravaged. The Square is in ruins, DANGER tape outlining many of the buildings of its former glory even now. Construction is at a standstill. The street is wide open and only shadows walk it; there's no hustle and bustle, this isn't a main thoroughfare anymore. There's no one.

After making a plan of communication, the two young men with the power to leap through time seperated and ventured off on their seperate ways. Peter Petrelli went to one place he's seen an image of in the future… Times Square. With the painting he did fresh in his memory from Cass' visit this morning, he steps around a building to look at the main thoroughfare… the empty main thoroughfare. There's some relief at the state it's in— the painting had not been empty in the least. The rest of the area… looks familiar. In a way he wishes it didn't. Staying near the buildings, he looks towards one of the flyers.

The flyers are a sundry mixture. Like the buildings around Times Square, most of them aren't in good shape. They overlap, making little sense.

"FIGHT OPPR" The other half is torn off.
"EVOLUTION IS NOW" A helix symbol graces the print-out.
"S * Y * N OFF TIMES SQUARE"
"RALLY" Words have been inked off with angry black marker. "AUGUST"

Save for distant sounds, vehicles, maybe, in the distance and the occasional shout from God knows where, the city seems quiet; an impossibility for New York, surely, and the illusion breaks shortly. The rumbling of a large vehicle does the trick. A modified, black humvee turns a corner and barrels into Times Square without regard for traffic law. A woman bursts out of a half-collapsed structure off to Peter's far right, followed by a man holding a toddler; they both clamor down a fire escape. The vehicle comes to a harsh halt in front of the building and two armed men - official in some federal capacity, by their garb - pile out and give chase into a dark alley, of sorts.

The August Rally flyer catches most of his attention. Peter reaches out and picks it off the building and looks at it. There had been hints of a rally of sorts in his painting. He's holding it in hand when the truck sounds in the distance, and then he looks back towards a building at the woman— and the man and the child. It's when the armed men burts out after him that he decides to follow at a run, crumpling the flyer and shoving it into his pocket to look at later. If it'd been three or four men with weapons too, he might not give chase this quickly, but a woman and toddler? Why would they need to chase after them with weapons?

The feds rush in the alley as the family tries to make it at a run to the other end, but they're no match for the trained men, whose feet pound on the pavement in the cramped space.

"You're under orders of detainment by law! Turn around, arms in the air!"

The child starts to cry.

The men catch up with them regardless and start to force their arms back, one man taking the toddler; they don't seem to notice Peter, but they will when they turn around to go back to the vehicle.

"Just because we're not like them—! No! No, stop!" the woman shouts. "Let us go! You know what, your goverment's run by monsters!" she literally spits at the ground.

Government's run by monsters.

Peter's not too far away when she's yelling at them, saying so much outloud, and spitting at their feet. They're unarmed. They have a baby. What possible threat could they hold to the government to be treated like this? He doesn't wait for them to turn around and see him, because as soon as the woman's done speaking, he calls out, "What have these people done? What is going on?" This is craziness. And the government sanctions this sort of activity? The government that is supposed to be ran by his brother?

As the men turn to push the man, woman and child, all of whom are shouting, toward the waiting vehicle, they both instantly stare at Peter. The two well-built, hard-featured men look at Peter like he's a crazy person. He has to be, not to know. "What are you, off your meds?" one of them says. He's the one holding the youngster against its will. "It's the law. They don't have the genes. They go back to the pool." The other man urges them on to the vehicle while nodding his head in brusque gesture at Peter and holding out a hand, waving a few fingers towards himself. "ID, kid. Hand it over slow."

"What law could make you threat people like this?" Peter says, looking towards the child especially. A crying baby. It's terrible. He's never seen anything like this before. Yeah, somebody's off his meds. Or lost in the streams of time. "They're unarmed and they're scared." With apparently good reason to be. There's a hint of him setting his stance. ID. He has ID in his pocket, but he thinks his driver's liscence is expired, and he doesn't think it'd be valid with what they're wanting anyway. "I must have left it at home." Probably not the best answer, but— "Why can't you just let them go?"

"Another radical," the fed sans baby mutters and nods to the other, who goes to guide (read: shove) the future detainees inside. He winds around the bulky humvee-like vehicle, slowly approaching Peter with a hand on the weapon at his hip. "Sir, you're going to have to come with us."

Somewhere, music thrums distantly into the night.

Reaching out, Peter attempts to disarm the man as subtly as possible— but nothing happens. There's a disgruntled sound, and he looks towards the truck where they're putting the people, handcuffed and otherwise. There's a pause. He needs time to deal with this… To make this work for him. From the set of his jaw, it's obvious he's frustrated and not pleased with things, eyes darkened by the situation, as well as the shadows cast from the dark skies. "Will I be riding with them?" he finally asks, inclining his chin in their direction.

"There's room. If you don't mind getting cozy." Something about the man's reply, its cold edge, indicates that it wouldn't matter if Peter was claustrophobic.

A siren sounds, far away, another crisis.

He takes another step forward. His boot crunches under stray gravel underfoot; probably from the city's rubble. "No ID, we have to check you. You going to come along willingly?"

Unfortunately for Peter, he doesn't quite know what to do in this situation. With no experience in breaking people out of these situations, and no idea how he'd get them out without hurting anyone, he takes the only option he knows of. He turns invisible. As soon as he disappears from sight, he moves down the street, hoping to get out of range before they fire wildly.

They don't fire wildly, as it turns out. "Huh." Packing it in, the armed men drive out of Times Square. From up, up, up above the changed cityscape with its crushed, tumbled and blackened buildings, their vehicle winds through the city. It's not the only one of its kind. They're headed out of the city entirely.

A flyer catches the breeze in Times Square, tearing off an out-of-the-way post. It's a photo of a dark-haired man with a grim expression. A familiar man. Peter Petrelli.

WANTED
If you see this man, call…

END OF VOLUME ONE

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