2007-08-28: DF: These Acts of Evil


DFNathanReal_icon.gif DFJack_icon.gif DFPeter2_icon.gif DFKate_icon.gif

Summary: The monster had a plan, and always did.

Dark Future Date: August 28, 2009

These Acts of Evil

The Oval Office

Much like it was a month ago, the Oval Office is filled with media people. Except now, the carpets are ruined, the walls are blacked from an explosion, and it has been emptied of furniture save for the new additions of an antique desk and chair. Fresh curtains hang from newly paned windows, but there is little to disguise the devastation that wrecked the office. All the same. If Nathan is going to give one goddamn speech, it's going to be in his goddamn office.

Seated already, with notes in front of him as well as on the teleprompter, Nathan waits for the cue to begin, dressed immaculately in a suit and tie, cleanshaven and altogether, very presidential. Save for the paleness, and the distinct look of nervousness. He glances towards a certain figure standing in the corner, and when he's given his cue, he breathes out a shaky sigh, and begins, nine fingers clasped together.


<IC-Radio> Nathan Petrelli is seated at the desk inside a seemingly ruined Oval Office, though the curtains, the desk, the smaller things remain intact. He is dressed immaculately, as can be expected, but seems almost nervous a she begins. "My fellow Americans. I have decided to address you today, as a nation, with complete honesty, an honesty this country deserved a long time ago. My election should have been an honour and a privilege. But I abused that power given to me, and there is no excuse that can account for the damage done to the state of our justice system, our economy, the government, and most importantly, the American people."

<IC-Radio> "I was captured by people pronounced as 'terrorists', lead by a man named Jack Derex. When history looks back on my name, it will not show the leader I had hoped to be. When history looks back on the freedom fighters of this world, then I hope that they will be named 'heroes'. They did more for me in the brief time of my captivity than America will ever know." He pauses, glances down at his sheets, hands bearing only nine-fingers remaining clasped together, and continues, a little steadier.

<IC-Radio> "It is not in my nature to quit or to step aside, but considering now these acts of evil I have inflicted upon my country, I am forced to resign from my position of Presidency. My fate will remain in the hands of the American justice system, and I hope it will be the first of many acts of justice that will restore America to the land of liberty it once was." But then there is a pause, certainly not a scripted one, and Nathan's gaze switches from the camera for a moment. "…what are you doing here?"

<IC-Radio> The broadcast goes dead. We now return to your regularly scheduled programs.


Time heals all wounds, but some take more than others. Notable examples include but are not limited to: Severed legs, nerve damage, and second degree burns across fifty percent of a person's torso.

A week of bed rest has left Jack rejuvenated, if not fully repaired. Despite all of this, he has found his way into the White House mere hours after his escape from Level 5. It wasn't easy. First he had to get away from Trina. Then off to Candy for several thick layers of appearance-altering make up. False identification and a great deal of fast-talking were enough to get him through the door. Now, still wheelchair-bound, he cradles a bulky video recorder and grins reassuringly at Nathan through the viewfinder. Wheelchair or not, there was zero chance of him missing his best friend's speech. He flashes a thumbs up, then peers through his camera again in a pseudo-professional fashion.


As the speech gets near the end, someone appears in the room. Someone easily recognized by their long hair pulled back into a short ponytail, and the trenchcoat that they often wear, no matter the heat. At first, no one in the room can even see him, except the man that he's looking right at. The now former President of the United States. When the man recognizes him, he moves his arms out from his body, and they start to glow blue until an electromagnetic pulse shoots out from his body, cutting off the television and radio feed, and killing all lights in the room— and an entire five mile radius, actually.

Now, as one, everyone in the room can see him. Peter's lip tugs into a lopsided smirk. With a gesture, almost every person in the room slams hard against walls, knocked unconscious without much visible effort on his part to do so. Everyone, that is, except Nathan and Jack. The make up and disguise aside— he recognizes the man. A mental signature is hard to fake. Turning towards him first, he commands, in the man's mind. 'Just sit there and watch.'

"So this was your plan, Nathan? Resign from office?"


There's a soft thud as the chair tips back, Nathan standing up sharply, the furniture falling right back onto the floor as people are thrown into walls, cameras still looking on - but dead and unseeing. He glances to the wheelchair'd form of Jack, to see if he's alright, as well as as if asking what to do, but his attention is steered unstoppably back towards Peter as Nathan remains standing with the heavy oak desk between them. "It's the beginning of one," he manages. "It can be a catalyst for people like you and Jack." He glances again towards the unconscious bodies of the media crew, gives Peter an accusing look. "What's your plan, exactly?"


Jack lets out a strangled, gasping groan. It's Peter. He hates Peter. Peter is ruining a big moment for Nathan. He likes Nathan.

For Jack, the math is pretty simple. It's obvious from the lack of lights that they aren't on the air any longer, and he could quite literall give two shits about what everyone else in this room thinks. Time to spring into action. The stump of his leg twitches, as if he's imagining using a limb that no longer exists. Time to spring into action. He's never shot Peter personally, but he's always sort of wanted to. IT'S TIME.

Only it isn't. He can't move. He can't stand (obviously). He can barely even quake with frustration after being commanded to remain still on an Evolved level. The one thing he can do is continue filming, because it doesn't require moving.


"Well, my wife told me something not too long ago…" Peter starts, moving closer to the desk that's between them, and putting his hands down on it. Some of the people tossed against the wall twitch for a moment, but they're not going to be getting up just yet— he has time. "She said she couldn't handle it if something happened to you." He pauses, looking down towards the desk for a moment. Such a nice desk, really. "Then she said that she loved me the most of anyone… I think I would like to test this theory." He lifts his hands, and the desk lifts up as well, flying into the wall a few feet from Jack, at which point he glances over, "Sorry about that." But he still has to sit there and watch.


Something to be said about a heavy oak antique desk suddenly flung across the room like it were made of cheap pine. Nathan twitches back with a compulsive gasp, almost tripping over the chair just behind him. He could run, and he wants to run, despite the fact that this is his brother. No matter what, he shouldn't have to flee someone like Peter, and besides, he'd have to leave a friend behind if there was any true danger to run away from. This talk of Kate earns a sharper (if a little bit of an incredulous) look, too, and Nathan shakes his head. "She loves us both," he says, firmly, holding out his hands as if to show surrender. "But she married you, Peter."


As much as Jack wishes he could act, he continues to sit and quiver with impotent rage. Impotent. The word applies well because Jack is straight and he's stuck sitting between two brothers who are overfond of touching each other. And they're about to spat. The folks crammed and smashed against the walls and the splinters of desk-shrapnel peppering him aren't helping his disposition, either.

Hey Peter. I know you gots problems, but seriously, why don't you fuckin' cry about it?

Jack's face pinkens, then goes purple with effort. Beads of sweat pop up along his hairline and around the collar of his suit. Finally, he chokes out two words. "Nathan. Run."


There's no tears in Peter's eyes when he turns to look at the man who sent his way. He obviously heard it. Impotent is a good word. The desk has splitered, a piece of it rips off. Run? He thinks not. Lifting up, it spins— and then stops. "By my calculations, it should take my wife about two minutes before she arrives— and she's the only one who will find their way through the maze to get in here…" Never enough time. The piece of wood floats between the two men, as if it can't decide where to go. It could be meant for either one of them. For a few moments— and then it goes flying towards his brother, chasing him down, actually intending to pin him to a wall if it hits properly. "Don't run, Nathan. I'm not finished yet."


Nathan does run. For a moment, he runs. As soon as those words about Kate are voiced, Jack's suggestion takes priority, because Nathan suddenly understands. It'd be ideal to fly through the windows but even he's unsure if he can crack reinforced glass like that, so he runs for the doors. Two steps, exactly. Then suddenly, sharp pain, pushing him back and back with a jerk, and a thud as wood imbeds itself in wall, impaling Nathan through the shoulder. He screams, once, in agony, a hand lifting to somehow extract the wood - but that proves to be unbelievably painful, and his hand falls away, the other hanging uselessly as blood begins to stain his jacket, his shirt. Breathing hard, he tries to focus on Peter, tries not to struggle. Hurts, it fucking hurts. "Why are you doing this?" he rasps, breathless.



That's all Jack is really able to say. Flecks of spittle shotgun away from his lips when he shouts. His furious, murderous flush intensifies and he thrashes against the effects of Peter's verbal command. If you can call it thrashing. In truth, it's more of a weak wiggle. When it proves to be fruitless, hot, frustrated tears spring up in his eyes and he groans again wordlessly. In the end, there is little he can do but continue to film the exchange.


As he stands there, pinned against the wall, Peter walks over, glancing back towards Jack, "Now, now— no need to swear." It's not an order, just a tsk. And he's smiling still, that lopsided half smile with the flawed mouth that he always had. Walking the rest of the way towards the former President, he spreads his arms, almost in a gesture of harmlessness, but his smile— his eyes— are hardly harmless. "I'm doing this— because she loves you." There's two more steps, until he can touch the piece of wood impaled into the man's shoulder, and the wall, hand grasping the tip that's sticking out. Leaning in closer, his mouth gets right next to his ear, and he whispers something softly. When he draws back, he breaks it off in his hand, and looks right at him for a moment, smiling, pressing the splintered piece against his chest, right over his heart— where it will be shoved deep.


Whatever is whispered… it's almost enough to distract Nathan from the pain of the wood snapping, which gains barely a gasp. His blurry, swimming vision fixes on the face of his killer, realisation like a shock of ice cold water. "No, oh no," he breathes with denial, distraught - which could have something to do with the makeshift dagger pressing to his chest, which drives with force straight into his heart not a moment later. Nathan groans in ragged pain, though it sounds almost like relief, a hand reaching out to grab a fist full of trench coat, needily, angrily, and in his periphery, a burn-scarred face that no one else could see watches on. As it always did. Then, he's not seeing much at all, eyes glassy.


Well, as long as Jack's allow to swear…


No, it doesn't make a great deal of sense. Yes, Jack is completely livid. He continues to squirm and sweat and growl, but is unable to make even the slightest headway against the compulsion that's binding him. The staking of Nathan Petrelli pushes him over the edge. He's seen too many friends get hurt. Too many deaths.


Oh God, no.

The moment the broadcast went out, Kate was bolting out of the safehouse Peter instructed her to stay in until he came for her. Nathan's reaction, 'what are you doing here?' was far too casual for her liking. It means whatever just happened was done by someone he trusted. And Peter isn't at her side.

Breathless, her lungs burn from the run. She's dizzy from the exertion, and from the unfamiliarity of quick movements with only half her sight. But she is navigating her way through the maze just as Peter said she would. She's been to this room before - to beg and plead for Logan to stop the madness - more times than she would care to admit. She has no idea what's happened. It's dark and the entire world is confused. Kate trips and stumbles three or four times in her last push for the hollowed out husk called the Oval Office. As she pushes her way through to the doors, it isn't her brother's name she's shouting.

"Peter! Peter!"

Like days of NYPD past, Kate has her gun out and ready when she kicks open the doors. Mismatched eyes, hazel and clouded white, grow wide when the scene registers. Her gun wavers for a moment, but stays up. Poised to fire.

The woman nicknamed The Bitch for her temper is speechless.


"Hate me— but keep watching. There's more." It's said almost coldly, but not in the same mental compulsion. There's more.

There should have been guards in those halls, people running to investigate— and there was nothing— no one— they're all trapped in the maze, somewhere else. But Kate gets a more direct path— the easy path. And as soon as she busts in the door, Peter looks over from where Nathan's finished spouting off his last breaths— turning to the woman at the door, rather than the man who shouted curses at him. Right on time. Stepping away from the murder scene, he still has blood on his hands from the piece of wood he'd driven into the former President's heart— the piece of wood he leaves there.

"Look what you made me do, Kate," he says— a hint of amusement in his voice.


As Peter steps back, Nathan's hand falls limply from where it had attempted to grab at him. Hard to tell if he was dead before or dead after Kate burst into the room, but one thing is certain - he's dead now. There is a final sort of slump, body giving in as his heart is driven to stop beating, one last choking breath drawn in, out, before nothing, stillness setting it, saving for the flow of blood still staining and blossoming onto white fabric, beginning to drip steadily.


"Mara!" Even (especially) in this stressful situation, her chosen pseudonym seems wildly inappropriate to Jack. One more reason to shout, as he's still locked in his seat with his digital recorder aimed at the bloody embrace of that is one brother killing another. He can't quite believe that Nathan is dead yet. There's still wild, fierce hope in his eyes that something can be done to save him.



"No," Kate whispers. She frantically wants to disbelieve. "Peter- No." She flinches and stumbles back a step. She taps the side of her head. He should know what it means. She's hoping desperately that he doesn't know what it means. Her eyes flit to Nathan. Nathan's body. The tears spill from her eyes unwillingly. She pries her eyes away from the man who was her lover, and puts her gaze back on That Man Who Cannot Be Her Husband. "Who are you?" She readjusts her grip and her aim on the gun. Normally, she'd be going for the head. But with only one eye, the best she can hope for is a good torso shot. When Jack screams that name - her old name - she tightens her finger around the trigger.


There's that same smile. "You know better than to shoot me, wife— unless you want me to send the bullet into your other past lover in the room." Peter's tone is the same whispered tone she's come to know for the last couple of years, though colder, harsher. Like he's snapped. His hand raises, as if expecting to do just that, ready. "I'm the man you've been married to for the last few years— the man you said you loved more than anyone. The man who held you while you cried you eyes— well— your eye— out yesterday." It's so cold. So terrible. "But you were right, yesterday. Death is tired of waiting."

A second voice breaks into the room, different, familiar to at least the woman standing with the gun. "Am I ever." Stepping out of the shadows, unseen, as if he'd been there the whole time, is Sylar, easily recognized by his eyebrows, his cold smile. "I told you I'd find you."

Tick. Tock.

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