Author's note: Just re-uploaded each chapter (as of July 21, '08). As I've said before, I've decided to publish this fic to test the waters, see if anyone might enjoy my (in my own opinion) crappy writing. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated, so please leave a review!

Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes, sadly.

Veronica Hammond

Hartsdale, New York

White walls. Barred windows. Cold linoleum floor. It's no different from the other rooms here in this entire building, save perhaps for Bob's office. But even the wooden furniture and photographs of his dearest daughter don't bring any warmth into the room. I've been there many times and the feeling is still the same: tense and detached, much like the personnel themselves of the facility. But who am I to judge? I'm practically one of them. The only person in this place I wouldn't associate the apathy of the rooms with is Dr. Suresh. He's a kind, gentle soul, always wanting to do the right thing. I often wonder how someone like him ended up working for The Company. Then again, my situation wasn't that at all simple either…

One month ago

Petrelli pulled out of Congress.

The newspaper headline glares at me, taunting me, the bold black letters practically boring themselves into my eyes. A picture of a dark-haired man in a disheveled suit is splayed underneath the day's headline of The New York Times. I place the paper down on the kitchen counter and sip my cup of coffee quietly. I'm not surprised. All of us at the campaign office expected it, but never hoped for it.

The evening after his victory was announced, Nathan Petrelli was brought to the hospital's ICU. He had suffered from extreme radioactive burns. Although he made a sudden miraculous recovery, he surely isn't the same man full of charisma and optimism. He is suffering from depression, or so his mother says. I've never liked that woman. She once complimented me on my suit, but I'm sure she was rolling her eyes the minute I turned around. I could tell she wasn't as fond of Nathan as she was of Peter, Nathan's younger brother and who's now a vegetable. He, too, suffered the same radioactive burns as Nathan but he clearly wasn't all too lucky as his elder sibling.

I drain my cup and throw the newspaper into the trash bin. I don't bother giving the story a second glance. The press surely must have exaggerated all the bits of information they could get their hands on. "Nathan Petrelli, the nutcase." That might as well be the headline. As I place the dirty dishes in the dishwashing machine, the telephone rings.

"Hey, this is Veronica. You know the drill. BEEP. V! It's Nat. We're all here at the office. There'll be a meeting in a few minutes. The press is having a field day outside. Nathan might come over, but his mother's probably not going to let him out of her clutches. Anyway, you'd better get your ass here, ASAP. See you, V."

Natalie. She's probably getting a little enjoyment from all the press hype. The real news hasn't hit her yet: we're all going to be unemployed. I can feel myself twitch at the thought. I sit by the counter and take a deep breath. I've worked so hard for this…Four years in Columbia—on scholarship…an internship with the Petrelli law firm and then, like that. Gone. Because my boss turns out to be a manic depressive. I bite my lip. What now?

I hear another ringing, this time from my cellphone. Natalie, I'm sure. I don't want to go the office, despite the fact I'm already dressed and ready. I can't bear to face all that pressure and disappointment. I don't answer my phone and drag myself to my bedroom to change. After months of intense campaigning, all I want is some rest and relaxation. Sitting in front of the television with popcorn and ice cream should fit the bill.

I wash away my make-up, which I carefully put on an hour ago in the bathroom. Without all the foundation and blush, I realize I look absolutely in need of said rest and relaxation. My skin has paled and is tight on my cheekbones. My once fine brown hair is a thick mess of waves and there are grayish circles beneath my eyes, which have lost its vivid green hue. That's what you get for staying indoors for too long and forgetting to eat properly. Coffee and sandwiches aren't exactly the best daily diet. My last proper meal was at the victory party two nights ago…

RRRIIINNNGGG!

It's no longer my telephone or mobile. It's the doorbell this time. Don't tell me they actually sent someone over here to get me. I peer through the peephole and the face of a balding, bespectacled man looks right back at me. I don't think I've ever seen this guy in the campaign office before. I hesitantly unlock the door and pull it open.

"Ms. Hammond?" The man says, his voice flat and nasal.

"Yes, how may I help you?" I ask, eyeing the man's polished leather shoes and dull-brown suit.

"My name is Bob." He says. "How would you like to save the world?"

Present day

Today is not an ordinary day, but ever since I met Bob, not one has been considerably normal.

It's been more than five minutes since I've been waiting for him. I'm alone, but that's hardly true. I'm aware of the surveillance camera in the corner of the room, right above the metal cabinet. I'm sitting on a metal chair, drumming my nails on a metal table. I'm used to the coldness of everything now, the numb everyday routine The Company has forced me to follow. But after today, I can finally return to the outside world.

I hear footsteps echo outside in the hallway, the soft click of the door's electric lock and Bob enters. He is as mundane-looking as he was a month ago, when he first asked me to save the world. We exchange silent nods and I rise to follow him. This is it.

We take the elevator up the to the roof. From the hallway, the whirr of the helicopter is already audible. I struggle to keep my hair out of my eyes and my jacket from flying away as I near the helicopter.

"We expect you to return by tomorrow morning." Bob shouts through the noise. "We'll keep you posted. Contact us immediately if you need any assistance. Good luck."

I don't say anything, but stare at him for a few seconds before stepping inside the helicopter. A moment later, I can feel us rising into the air. I grip my seat tightly and grit my teeth. I dare not look down, but fear has disposed of all self-control. I can see Bob standing there, watching me from below. Even until he's a mere speck in the distance, I can still feel his eyes on me, judging my every move.

Three weeks ago

"ARGH!"

The sickening sound of bone cracking and my yells fill the room. I lie there on the matted floor, clutching my injured wrist for several minutes. The pain is as penetrating as the eyes that watch me from behind the two-way mirror before me. I know Bob is there and probably his daughter too, Elle. That sadistic little bitch must be full of giggles at my broken wrist.

A dark-brown hand reaches out and helps to lift me up.

"Come on, we'll get that hand of yours fixed." Dr. Surseh says, smiling at me. "And for the record, your kickboxing has improved, though I'm not exactly in any position to judge. I'm merely a doctor after all."

The corners of my mouth cannot help but form a smile. "Thanks, Doctor."

Dr. Mohinder Suresh is by far the only person who's managed to make me feel human ever since I've arrived at this facility, which was exactly a week ago.

It took me a while to understand everything: my abilities, The Company…Though, until now, I still have no clear idea of what exactly is happening to me. I'm nervous and doubtful, still. I've learned, in my few days here, that The Company treats its "patients" like a bunch of guinea pigs—animals. They think we—I—possess no mind. It'll take more than physical training and wires stuck to my brain to fully wear me out.

Bob said to me that after a day of conducting tests, I could leave, but I've been here for six days already. Not only have been they testing my ability, but have been giving me kickboxing lessons as well. I don't bother asking anymore. I never get any answers and if I do, it's not worth believing. The only honest dialogue that's passed through my ears was during my first evening here. Bob and Dr. Suresh were careless enough to converse right outside my doorway…

"So her abilities are similar to that of the Haitian's?" Bob asks, whispering.

Why didn't they just talk in his office? Was Bob too excited?

"Not necessarily." Dr. Suresh replied. "She can suppress others' abilities by forming this sort of shield. A bubble, you could say. Of course, it's understandable she's been unaware of this or the fact that there are others like her. If they've been near her, they surely could not have made known their abilities to her."

"How wide is her range?"

"That's yet to be discovered. Though, I believe she's been manifesting at an early age and her abilities have developed effortlessly."

"Is that all?"

"Well, there's also the possibility of her doing more with her shielding abilities. As I've described to you, she's surrounded by this bubble. Once she's aware of it and learns to control its range, she may also learn to control its obstructing force. She could block not just other people's abilities, but their emotions, thoughts and even physical matter as well. She truly is a walking shield."

"Perfect. This means we can finally bring back Sylar to the facility."

They told me nearly the exact same information the following day, the day I was supposed to return home, but never mentioned this "Sylar." Bob said he'd like to run a few more tests. I thought of protesting, but I didn't. The day ended and I was escorted back to my room instead of the exit. I argued with Bob the next morning and he explained that he wished to keep me for a few more days. He prattled on about my abilities and even showed me my private records. They've been keeping an eye on me since I was eleven. The Company is meticulous and Bob proves this when he told me that "I" already have messaged my friends that I'm in New Jersey to visit my family. What family?

My record also states that my parents perished in a car accident when I was eight. It was a stormy night, there was a sudden blackout and a bridge. I was sent to live with my grandparents, who lived long enough to see me graduate from high school and receive my acceptance letter from Columbia University. My file as well mentions my fear of heights and that I have a slight obsessive compulsive disorder.

All of this, they reveal to me, but not one mention of "Sylar." The Company forgot to include in my file my constant curiosity.

In the day, I often wonder if I do posses these so-called superhuman abilities and why would I have such. I don't find them to be anything extraordinary. Flying or telekinesis…now those are truly some superhuman abilities. The migraine and nosebleed-inducing training, however, are not all in vain. I do acquire the feeling of having control over this "bubble" I have. Range is what the Doctor and I have been working on. Yesterday, I managed to make it smaller and I was finally able to witness Bob's ability. He waved the glimmering golden pen at me from the other side of the room as I wiped the blood trickling from my nose. He's a living Midas.

"Can I play with her now?" Elle asked, smiling childishly as a ball of bright blue light emanated in her hand.

I released my hold and Elle's ball of electricity and smile immediately disappeared.

"She learns quickly." Bob said to Dr. Suresh, as if I'm not even right in front of him.

My arm is bandaged and I'm sitting in Dr. Suresh's small office. It's as lifeless as all the other rooms. A framed photograph on his desk catches my eye. It's of his family: his father, his mother clutching him as a baby and a young girl—his sister.

"She's dead now." Dr. Suresh says, noticing my eyes on the picture. "She was killed by a virus that affects people with abilities. My father discovered a cure, but it was already too late."

I nod and my eyes drop to a book beside the photograph. A picture of Dr. Suresh's father is displayed above the name, Dr. Chandra Suresh.

"He wrote that book." Dr. Suresh says, showing the front cover.

Activating Evolution.

"It's all about his theories." He explains. "Would you like to read it?"

I glance up at him. Remorse is written all over his face.

"Of course."

There is a knock on the door and Bob enters.

"I'd like to speak to you, Veronica." He says. "In private."

I take the book from Dr. Suresh and follow Bob to his office. I sit on the sofa as Bob takes his seat behind his desk. He stares at an open folder on his desk before he hands it to me. I presume it's my file, but I'm surprised to see the name Gabriel Gray written on the label. I glance up at Bob, giving him a questioning look.

He only says, "He goes by the name of Sylar."

I open the folder. It's similar to my own file…a birth certificate, personal database, typewritten notes, pictures, newspaper clippings…

Serial killer strikes again…Walker family massacre…Sidewalk murder in Chicago…

A picture of a young man smiles quietly up at me, dark hair combed neatly, dark eyes hidden behind glasses. His face is clean and well-defined with dark, prominent eyebrows. Was this seemingly innocent-looking man responsible for all these murders?

"He's the answer to all your questions." Bob says.

I put down the file. "Who is he? And what do I have to do with him?"

Bob sighs gruffly and rubs the bridge of his nose before narrating. "Gabriel Gray owned a shop in Brooklyn, repairing watches. He lived in an apartment in Queens, the same building where Dr. Chandra Suresh—" He nods at the book beside me. "—also resided. Gabriel also possesses a special ability. He has an 'intuitive aptitude'. Dr. Suresh conducted tests on him, but found nothing 'special' about him. Gabriel resorted to murdering a man possessing telekinetic abilities to convince Dr. Suresh that he's indeed 'special'. He kills his victims by slicing off the top of their heads and retrieves their brains. Now what he does with those, we still have no clear idea of. Anyway, Gabriel led to the murder of Dr. Suresh, who had questioned Gabriel's motives. After that, he's been on the hunt for others with superhuman abilities so he can take them for himself. To date, he's responsible for ten murders, including his own mother's."

"You answered my first question, now for the second one." I say, my tone more demanding than ever.

"About a week ago, Gabriel, who's come to call himself Sylar, was stabbed in the chest by one Hiro Nakamura at Kirby Plaza, New York. He was believed to be dead, but his body was missing. An accomplice of Daniel Linderman retrieved his body from the sewage system. He's currently in the middle of the Mexican jungle, hidden in a safehouse and recovering from his wounds. He's still unconscious, but he will wake soon and when he does, that's when you step into the picture."

The pieces of the puzzle fall quickly into place.

"I'm going to get him for you."

Bob nods. "Yes. He's a highly dangerous man. Although he's under medication—we've given him negation pills to suppress his abilities—that's not a 100 guarantee, but you are."

I bite my lip, nodding slowly.

"Hence, all the training. But I wonder…why the hell would you want to keep this serial killer alive?!"

"To study him and to help him, Veronica. That's what we do."

"Like an animal." I scoff silently. "I don't think I'm going to even agree to this request."

"This is no request, Veronica. It's imperative that you take this assignment. Didn't you say you wanted to save the world?"

I frown at him.

"After this, you can go."

That's better.

"When will he wake up?" I ask, before going through the door.

"That is still indefinite."

I'm trapped.

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