Warning: non-con non-sexual spanking of an adult. Don't worry, the brat deserved it.
Spoiler alert: This story is an off stem of Volume 4, which is the second half of Season 3. If you haven't seen these episodes, you don't yet want to read this story!
Sylar's eyes opened to fire. Gone were Claire and Angela, and soon the building would be gone too. He sucked in a deep breath, his second breath since coming back to life. The back of his head had a sharp pain that was fading fast as he stumbled to stand. As he stood, he felt a searing pain trickle down his neck.
"Melted glass. Very good, Claire," he smiled as he wiped what was currently left of his burnt hand down the back of his neck, bringing it forward to look at it.
Trying to take a step, he noted that what had been left of the rubber in the soles of his shoes had mostly liquified in the short time he'd been standing. Looking up through the smoke and flames, he raised a hand, shattering the window and then he telekinetically sailed himself through it to safety in order to heal.
"Well, that's not what I had in mind," Sylar groused, watching both the building and his plotted revenge burn as his flesh healed itself. Most of his clothing and his shoes had melted away in the extreme heat. This only bothered him because he heard someone close by, and looking in their direction he realized he was being watched in his near nakedness.
A middle aged woman stood, watching him from around the corner of another building. Just staring. Not much made him feel shamed anymore, but somehow this did. Irritated by his feelings, he shot a line of electric at the woman, who disappeared behind the corner just before she was struck. Growling out a single laugh, Sylar set off for his current living space to clean and cloth himself.
On his way, his mind couldn't help but go over the past twenty four hours. He had loved Elle during the eclipse, only to kill her hours later. Next he took a power that revealed Arthur's lie, the lie about the Petrelli's being his true parents. He killed Arthur for this, angry and distraught that he once again had no family, and livid that he was lied to, manipulated. Angela, the great manipulator. Oh, she would pay. They would all pay. But first, he wanted to know why. But that wasn't to be, thanks to Claire, and now here he was, running the streets indecent, going home to lick his wounds.
Sylar showered in the little motel room he was staying at, letting the hot water spill over him as he rested his forehead against the wall. Eyes scrunched closed in anger, every once in awhile he lightly punched at the walls with the undersides of his fists, and then would let his fists skid down until his arms were again by his sides. Going after other powers didn't matter much to him anymore. All he wanted was to find his real family. "...and that starts with finding dad," he said aloud, before turning the shower off.
It wasn't hard, all he had to do was some basic searching. A day later, he was in Baltimore. He walked to the little timepiece restoration shop, feeling as though he were being watched, but could find no one staring. Miffed, he entered the building and went into the little shop and looked around, shocked at how similar it was to his own. A few seconds later, his father came from a back room, pointing a shotgun at him, thinking he was a burglar.
"Martin? Martin Gray? You went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back. Or so the story goes. Kind of cliché, don't you think?" Sylar said, staring him down.
"Who are you?" Martin asked as he lowered the shotgun.
"I'm your son. And I have some questions for you," Sylar said, trying to contain his anger.
"I'm a different man than I was then, it was a long time ago," he said, putting away the shotgun.
"Maybe for you," Sylar said, watching him closely.
"You want an apology? An I'm sorry? To know that your mother was an infantile woman? Or that I regretted having a child with her?"
Sylar felt the tingle of a lie, "Well, let's start there, because I know for sure I'm not the son of a watchmaker and the woman who collected snow globes. So, who am I?" Pulling in the violent urge he felt was difficult, as he realized that everyone he'd known had lied to him.
"You were given to me by a man who needed money. You're mother wanted a baby and couldn't have one, I wanted out of a loveless marriage, but was a coward," Martin shrugged, as though it were an obvious story.
"By whom?"
"My brother."
"Is he still alive?" Sylar asked, his eyes watering slightly at both the information and at the possibility of meeting a living father who might have abilities, answers. He watched as Martin scribbled the address on a piece of paper and handed it to him. For a moment, he thought he might kill Martin, and for a moment he almost did. But then, he simply turned and walked out. There were more important matters at the moment.
With as emotional as he was upon leaving, Sylar didn't notice he was still being watched. Instead, his thoughts were on getting to his father, this Samson Gray, as quickly as possible.