"Indirectly." Sylar rubbed at the fingers he'd lost absently, as if he didn't even realize he was doing it, and then dropped his hand away. "I'm assuming they had a precog, because I got a twenty-one gun welcoming squad."

He'd managed to stop most of the bullets--he'd missed two, one going through his shoulder, the other through his leg--but regardless, it still hadn't been his idea of a good time. Nor had following the teleporter through the halls been a favorite pastime of his, since, "There was a teleporter that was leading them. A woman. She closed a maglock door on my hand when I got close." He offered his brother a wry smile. "I guess I should be thankful I didn't lose my entire hand."

Unconsciously, he flexed his fingers as if they still hurt, somehow--impossible--and then, like Peter, he re-centered himself on more pleasant conversation. "I haven't had a problem with it before. This is the first real ability I have that's affected my metabolism." Even his telekinesis didn't put a strain on his body like this had. His mind, yes, as he could remember exhausting himself more than once, while lifting something particularly heavy, but not his body. "It does make sense, though."