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*****
{Chapter: 191 - Madly Devouring And It's After Effects}
Several hours later, Aiden pushed open the door to his hotel suite. Rene followed behind him, but Aiden raised his hand. "You stay here only for now. Once I begin, you leave. I need to stay in control."
The room was dimly lit but full. Seven individuals sat or stood, varying between groggy consciousness and confused silence. All of them had one thing in common: special abilities. Powers. Gifts. Curses.
Peter Petrelli sat on the edge of the couch, rubbing his temples. He was a sensitive man, always empathetic, always concerned for others. He looked up at Aiden with a wary expression.
"What are you doing? Why are we here? This isn't right..."
Aiden regarded him. "You feel too much, Peter. That's your greatest flaw. You mimic powers, but you don't know how to control them yet. You're a candle flickering in a storm. But I... I am the storm."
Nathan Petrelli stood next to his brother, arms crossed. His tailored suit was wrinkled, his usually perfect hair slightly disheveled. He looked every inch the ambitious politician.
"You think you can just take us? Use us? Who the hell do you think you are?"
"I am Aiden," he said, stepping forward.
Peter's mother, Angela Petrelli, was in the corner, quiet but watching. Her precognitive dreams had warned her something was coming. Still, the reality was more overwhelming than she had foreseen. "You can't fight fate, young man," she said in a measured tone. "Even kings fall."
"Only when they bow. I never will."
The others looked between one another. There was a fat man who looked nervous, his shirt damp with sweat. He had the ability to melt anything he touched.
"I didn't sign up for this," he mumbled. "I was just trying to get by, man."
An older woman, hard of face and wearing mismatched earrings, scoffed. Her super hearing picked up every anxious heartbeat in the room. "He ain't bluffing," she said. "He wants to take everything."
Aiden turned to Rene and gave a firm nod. "Leave. Find me tomorrow morning. Not before."
Rene hesitated. "You sure you'll be fine alone?"
"I have to be. Go."
Rene exited without a word more.
Aiden stepped into the center of the room and extended his hand toward the older woman.
"Your hearing is a marvel," he said gently. "But it's better used in me."
She screamed as he placed his palm on her forehead. Her body seized, energy pulsing between them. Aiden's eyes went black and he gasped as the power flowed into him. The super hearing embedded itself into his mind like a dagger, overwhelming him with noise. He winced but did not stop.
The moment the transfer was complete, the woman slumped in the chair fainted.
"Next," Aiden whispered through clenched teeth.
The fat man screamed and tried to run, but Aiden reached him in a blur. Another touch. Another scream. Aiden took his melting ability.
The room spun.
The third was the telepath—the dying man in the chair. Aiden reached him, barely breathing, and took his power with a shudder.
Now he could hear everything. Thoughts, words, sounds, all crashing into his mind.
He staggered. Sweat poured down his forehead. His fingers trembled.
"Don't... stop," he growled to himself. "Not... yet."
He reached Peter's mother. Angela looked up at him with pity.
"You'll destroy yourself," she said softly. "The future... I've seen it."
"Then let the future watch."
His hand met her head. A rush of prophecy flooded him—visions of alternate realities, splintered timelines, death, rebirth, betrayal.
His knees buckled.
The fifth ability filled him and his veins felt like they were burning. He roared. His pupils shrank. The room flickered between time streams.
He reached for the sixth—Nathan's flight.
But his fingers faltered. His body was shutting down.
He clenched his jaw. "No... I am... The King... I take... everything."
The sixth was absorbed. He felt lightness, the wind, sky, freedom.
But when he reached Peter...
His body convulsed.
Peter, eyes wide, whispered, "Don't do this."
Aiden touched him.
The mimicry flooded into him.
Too much.
Too many.
He screamed as energy poured through every nerve.
Then darkness.
The King fell.
The room went still as everyone fainted.
---
Aiden was truly unconscious. Not just asleep, not merely drained—but entirely disconnected from his senses, his memories fragmented like broken glass. He couldn't recall anything after devouring the fourth ability. It was as though his mind had been swept up into a storm of violent instinct and raw energy—no thought, no logic, only hunger and impulse.
And it was vicious.
That last memory… it wasn't clear. But he remembered the feeling. A tide of uncontrollable rage and desire had flooded his system, boiling just beneath the surface of his skin. It was not like anything he had ever experienced. It was as if he were no longer human—just an elemental force ripping through existence.
Time lost meaning in that chaotic darkness. It could have been hours… or days. But eventually, like a drowning man breaking the surface for air, Aiden's consciousness clawed its way back.
Pain greeted him first.
It was not dull, nor passing—it was a tearing, searing agony that flared through every muscle, every bone, every cell. It felt like his entire body had been split into pieces and stitched back together by blind hands using wire instead of thread.
He groaned softly, and his eyes creaked open like rusted shutters.
The room was dim, lit only by the sliver of pale light cutting through the hotel curtains. Blinking through the pain, Aiden slowly scanned his surroundings. Bodies.
Seven of them.
They were scattered across the floor in various positions. All unconscious. Some slumped against the walls, others sprawled on the carpet like discarded marionettes. Thankfully, he noticed with a deep breath of relief, none of them appeared dead. Their chests rose and fell slowly, indicating they were merely unconscious—fainted perhaps, from the strain of their powers being pulled away.
He recognized each face. Peter. Nathan. Angela. Claude. The old telepath. The melting man. The woman with hypersensitive hearing. All of them looked intact—clothes still on, no wounds, no blood.
Aiden exhaled again, long and ragged. Relief mixed with lingering dread.
Last time he had lost control during a devouring frenzy, it had been Pop girl—young, beautiful, and tragically vulnerable. The guilt of what happened still lingered in his chest like an iron weight. If this time it had been… Angela Petrelli? The aging telepathic black man? The heavyset woman?
A chill crawled up his spine just imagining it.
That would have broken him. Truly.
"This is…" he muttered hoarsely, voice dry as desert air, "…unbearable. Thank Goddess I was out cold."
Fortunately…fortunately nothing happened.
"This is an unbearable matter but thankfully I don't remember but even if I didn't I would still not have the face to live!"
He slumped back down slightly, body trembling from exertion. Aiden squeezed his eyes shut and silently vowed—never again.
Fortunately…fortunately nothing happened.
Aiden secretly regrets, swears that if there was a similar Situation it must be done in advance.
If another incident like this was even a possibility, he needed safeguards in place. Next time, he would plan in advance.
He'd keep two beautiful, healthy girlfriends nearby in case of emergency. They could absorb the outburst, if need be. It was a crude solution, but in his unstable state… pragmatism had to come before morality.
A sudden wave of nausea washed over him. His stomach turned, and he felt the sting of something else—metallic and sharp.
The smell of blood.
It was strong. Familiar.
His own.
Gritting his teeth, Aiden forced himself to look down. His entire shirt was soaked in dark crimson, almost black under the dim light. His hands trembled as they touched the fabric—wet, sticky, warm. But as he searched his torso and limbs, he found no visible wounds.
"Am I injured…?" he whispered.
His brows furrowed deeply. There were no lacerations. No punctures. Yet the blood was undeniably his.
He tried to sit up, and the motion felt like being stabbed by invisible knives. Every joint resisted. His body screamed in protest, but inch by inch, he made it to a seated position.
He glanced toward the table and saw the wine bottle he'd left there the night before. His mouth was dry, parched like sandpaper. He reached out with a trembling hand—fingers shaking—and tried to summon the bottle.
It didn't move.
A slow dread began to bloom in his chest. He shifted his fingers again. Nothing. No telekinesis. No psychic pull. Not even a flicker of power.
"Don't tell me… I'm… incapacitated again?" he muttered, horror creeping into his voice.
Panic twisted his thoughts into chaos. He tried again, switching to another ability. Still nothing. Then another. Silence.
He slumped back against the headboard, breath coming in shallow gasps.
This couldn't be happening. He had just devoured seven powerful abilities. He should be stronger than ever. He should feel invincible. Instead, he felt crippled. Weak. Powerless.
With shaking hands, he pulled the Reality Ring and put it on. With a thought a small dark green hand pulled the bottle towards him. He caught it, opened it clumsily, and drank deeply—letting the liquid soothe his burning throat.
It helped a little.