heroslayer | for mad

The world is ending, literally. Not that there aren't other worlds, other planets just as good as Earth sewn out among the stars that humanity is retreating to, but Earth itself is done. He shouldn't be surprised. Hell, he's not, having seen this coming for ages, and all without ever having to be a mind-reader or a precog, the signs all there as plain as day, humanity busily destroying their home. He shouldn't be surprised and he's not, but he is surprised to find that, even with all his foresight, it still hurts. He's seen decades of slow ruin, but he's never quite grieved for the looming loss of his planet--not until now.

He stands on what passes for a hill these days, the thing not made of stone or dirt or grass but of ruined buildings, looking down at what used to be New York. It hasn't been for years (decades? centuries? time is meaningless to him) of course, humanity renaming and rebuilding, before moving higher to carefully constructed platforms, leaving what once was to fester and decay, but he can still see it for what it once was. Home. Shining and alive. Maybe the memory has been tarnished by time, as he doesn't stop to think about all the darker areas of town that he used to use as his hunting grounds, back whe he was a younger man. Nor does he pay much attention to the sirens screaming into the distance, demanding evacuation. He'll go when he's damn ready, and not a moment sooner; he has things to say goodbye to, first.

Taking a deep breath, he throws himself off the hill, landing on the time-ruined pavement below, flawlessly. He lingers there for a moment, half-crouched and poised on the balls of his feet, and then he's pulling himself to his full height, weaving through the ruins leisurely. His fingers brush the remains of civilization as he passes, catching ghosts out of the corners of his eyes and on the edges of his hearing. He's out of practice using his abilities, but he can still make out phantoms, and he smiles a bit, though there's no joy in the expression. Leave it to him to torture himself in order to mourn. It's what he's always done, from the moment he started writing prayers on the walls of the back room of his apartment.

A sigh, letting out the air he'd drawn in a moment before, and he pulls his fingers away from stone and mortar, letting the remains of the city sleep for now, and moves further into the steelbound chaos. And it comes as a small shock to find what he's looking for among the wreckage. He wasn't expecting it to survive, not quite sure why he bothered looking in the first place, but there it is. Mohinder's loft. His home, moreso than his apartment, for more years than he bothers counting for.

He lets himself in effortlessly--not that it's much of an effort, really, the door long since missing--and meanders over to the explosion of New York on the floor, near-colorless now, thanks to time. Soundlessly, he sits down, and presses his hands to the ground, palms flat, summoning up shadows of him and the geneticist. They're welcome, the scenes that play out in ghostlight a comfort to watch, given what he pulled from the city moments ago, but he doesn't need them. He worked out how to keep him an age ago, even if he couldn't do the same for anyone else, not fast enough, and he knows Mohinder is waiting for him somewhere now, probably wondering where the hell he disappeared off to.

No, he's not here for this, and so he pushes further, eyes shuttering closed as he peels back layers of time and memory to find Mendez. And Nakamura. And his mother, the few times he was here. And so on and so forth, until he's covered everyone he's ever killed or lost; everyone who's ever been here.

He mutters apologies like prayers, putting his ghosts to bed one by one, and then he's pulling his hands away from the floor with a sharp intake of breath, his eyes snapping open. He sits there for a moment, no longer haunted, and then he's getting to his feet to move for the door. He hesitates, turns, and reaches for the watch at his wrist, still broken and still a festering scar. A moment of silence, and then for perhaps only the second time since he took the timepiece's name, he's taking it off, setting it down on the remains of the counter in the kitchen.

It's hard, so many good memories there, tangled with the bad ones and just a touch away, but he figures if he's going to put the past to rest, he needs to let go of the one thing still holding him back. Let it waste away, just like what remains of Earth. Let that person, the killer, sleep.

It's about time to leave the past behind, after all.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 837