Sylar sighs. Keep him safe. Torchwood Three is going to have a new imprint on their walls soon. He hates it so much. “Keep yourself safe,” he says, reaching upwards to yank the air down around them. Something horrible squeals and as Bucky releases his knives towards the bulbous blob being pulled into view, it bursts and covers them both in red, steaming hot liquid.

With it, Steve falls as well, in a fetal position, just as drenched as the rest of them. Sylar breaks his fall with a little telekinesis before he shakes the blood like substance from his body like a dog.

“Jack? Nine left.”