Post by forza21 on Oct 16, 2007 19:43:45 GMT
I writ in about fifteen minutes which explains the lack. If you want I'll continue, if not then. NOTE: THIS IS AFTER SEASON 1 - I'M WRITING THIS AS TO WHAT I WOULD HAVE DONE!! THEREFORE SPOILERS.
In the middle of the desert that is the Sahara the sun glared unto the sand and the rain kept itself to itself.
The great barren environment was deadly as Peter Petrelli was finding out.
Everything was a blur, his shadow seemed to move even when he didn’t.
For the past half a day he’d been wandering in a seemingly straight line. With no water he was dying and thirst was removing his strength. Peter stopped walking; closing his eyes he focused, to use his abilities. Any ability, whether it allowed to freeze the sand or live without having to breathe.
Nothing happened. Peter’s head was swimming, the last thing he remembered before exploding was Nathan Petrelli, his brother, flying him up into the stratosphere. Then his body burned and everything turned black.
But New York was saved, he told himself. He tried to laugh but his throat burned and that subdued him from any happiness. His powers where gone, that he knew.
At least not working for the time being , he thought. His black hair was charred and so was some of his body. The regenerative ability was working well considering he’d been at the exact epicentre of a radioactive bomb.
Stumbling forwards Peter egged himself on.
***
Mohinder Suresh stepped out of the grey, shabby building and was greeting by the bustling of over nine million people. London was such a terrible place. The dust in everyone’s eyes, the chatter of a hundred businessmen and women ready to use their briefcases to get past you.
Still, Mohinder thought, It is the most recognized city in the world. Even in his light grey shirt and white khaki shorts Mohinder was boiling and sweat rolled down his eyebrows and passed through them.
“And evolution says that they are there to protect from sweat getting into our eyes.” The Indian muttered as he stepped across a road splattered with bird waste and feathers of dead birds.
The people that brushed past Mohinder had no lives. They lived for money and complained when they had enough. Despite the attempts of the government London was a dull, grey city. The prime minister was dull and grey too.
Pulling out his old and battered mobile phone the geneticist dialled a eleven-digit number and put the phone to his ear. His left hand occupied his left pocket fiddling through the change he had wondering whether London had a good Indian bar.
The person he was calling answered.
“Hello, who is this?” the voice said it was a man’s yet it was soft.
“ Ando? I need to talk to you. I’ve found Micah and his family.” Mohinder said. There was a pause on the other line. Then a voice came out, a different voice.
“Hello Mr Suresh.” The voice said. Mohinder could her Ando chocking in the background noise. The voice chilled him to the bone. It belonged to the man known as Gabriel Sylar.
Hanging up Mohinder looked around and started to run.
In the middle of the desert that is the Sahara the sun glared unto the sand and the rain kept itself to itself.
The great barren environment was deadly as Peter Petrelli was finding out.
Everything was a blur, his shadow seemed to move even when he didn’t.
For the past half a day he’d been wandering in a seemingly straight line. With no water he was dying and thirst was removing his strength. Peter stopped walking; closing his eyes he focused, to use his abilities. Any ability, whether it allowed to freeze the sand or live without having to breathe.
Nothing happened. Peter’s head was swimming, the last thing he remembered before exploding was Nathan Petrelli, his brother, flying him up into the stratosphere. Then his body burned and everything turned black.
But New York was saved, he told himself. He tried to laugh but his throat burned and that subdued him from any happiness. His powers where gone, that he knew.
At least not working for the time being , he thought. His black hair was charred and so was some of his body. The regenerative ability was working well considering he’d been at the exact epicentre of a radioactive bomb.
Stumbling forwards Peter egged himself on.
***
Mohinder Suresh stepped out of the grey, shabby building and was greeting by the bustling of over nine million people. London was such a terrible place. The dust in everyone’s eyes, the chatter of a hundred businessmen and women ready to use their briefcases to get past you.
Still, Mohinder thought, It is the most recognized city in the world. Even in his light grey shirt and white khaki shorts Mohinder was boiling and sweat rolled down his eyebrows and passed through them.
“And evolution says that they are there to protect from sweat getting into our eyes.” The Indian muttered as he stepped across a road splattered with bird waste and feathers of dead birds.
The people that brushed past Mohinder had no lives. They lived for money and complained when they had enough. Despite the attempts of the government London was a dull, grey city. The prime minister was dull and grey too.
Pulling out his old and battered mobile phone the geneticist dialled a eleven-digit number and put the phone to his ear. His left hand occupied his left pocket fiddling through the change he had wondering whether London had a good Indian bar.
The person he was calling answered.
“Hello, who is this?” the voice said it was a man’s yet it was soft.
“ Ando? I need to talk to you. I’ve found Micah and his family.” Mohinder said. There was a pause on the other line. Then a voice came out, a different voice.
“Hello Mr Suresh.” The voice said. Mohinder could her Ando chocking in the background noise. The voice chilled him to the bone. It belonged to the man known as Gabriel Sylar.
Hanging up Mohinder looked around and started to run.