A Devil's Bargain
By adlyb
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except these words.
When she disappears he thinks the Company has taken her.
One morning she just doesn't come down for breakfast. Her mother gives up on calling her and asks for him to go upstairs and ask her to 'get her fanny out of bed.'
She doesn't answer when he knocks on her door.
One. Two. Three knocks.
Claire?
No answer.
The door knob creaks softly under his hand. Sunlight spills in through her curtains. It is another sunny day in Costa Verde. Her room is untouched- clothes are still in her drawers, furniture upright, window locked.
But Claire is gone.
The bed is unmade, the sheets rumpled. Like she has been taken. There is a pressure in his chest. He ignores it. Looks for a note. Anything. Nothing.
….
At first he hopes that she will come home.
When she doesn't, he thinks that perhaps she's gone to New York. Peter is dead, but maybe she's gone looking for her father. A quick phone call cures him of those illusions.
It is then that Sandra speculates that perhaps she has run off with West.
Who's West
He sees red.
….
He seeks the boy out. West. But he knows nothing. He makes sure the boy is telling the truth. There is blood on his shirt when he leaves him to the Haitian.
Go deep. Take it all.
He shouldn't, but he is a man with little patience and few scruples. So he does.
…
It's been months.
He leaves home, tells Sandra to keep a low profile, to keep a routine, and to play dumb should anything happen while he's gone. She tells the neighbors he's taking care of an ailing parent in Florida.
At first he worries that Sylar has taken her. But nothing ever turns up that fits his M.O. There is a smattering of other murders smacking of him, but never anything connected to Claire. Besides, something tells him that Sylar would leave the body where he would find it. Sylar seemed like the type to settle grudges.
But after all this time spent searching, listening, he has no leads. His options are running low. It is time to consider the worst case scenario. She wouldn't run away. He knows that.
It's hard to make the call. So hard. But he is willing to do anything, anything, to see Claire safe again. Even make a deal with the devil.
…..
Bob is waiting for him in a small diner outside of Las Vegas. He wears a plain, nondescript brown suit. There is coffee on the table, but it doesn't look touched.
He is not afraid as he approaches him. He feels no regret, no moral scruples with what he is selling his soul to. Only resignation.
Bennett, how do I know that I can trust you?
He isn't sure how to respond to that. But he also knows that Bob wouldn't be here if he didn't want him back.
Because you need me.
Well, Mohinder will be glad to know that you've seen the light.
When Bob passes him the stack of papers, he does not hesitate. He signs them immediately.
…
He knows it will take time before they allow him to see Claire. He will have to gain their trust first. But he knows he can handle it. If he can hold out long enough, fake indifference well enough to work his way up in this organization, he knows he can find a way to free her. To smuggle her out in the dark of the night. The consequences to himself are menial.
By the way, how is your daughter, Bennett?
Why don't you tell me?
Bob just smiles.
…
When he discovers that the Company does not have her, he is angry. All this time, wasted. He blames himself for being a fool. Rues the time spent tracking and bagging people like animals. The time he should have spent tracking Claire. He'd been so sure she was here, somewhere, inside this compound.
But he can't turn back. He's sold his soul and his freedom to this organization without initials and now he must stay.
He bides his time.
…..
They do find her eventually. Eventually.
It's been four years since his little girl disappeared.
What he finds when he is ushered into the viewing tank, flanked by guards and other, higher ranking officials, meant to insure that he make no attempt to free his daughter, is not his daughter. He feels a building pressure in his chest, a tightness that he can't overcome. Places a finger over his heart to calm his body.
She is not a little girl any more.
The woman stares at him blankly, for just a second. Then she is up against the glass, her fingers smudging against the crystalline barrier between them.
He knows that she has not aged. Her body hasn't declined one second since she manifested. Not for a second. But she looks infinitely older, somehow. He sees the big differences- her hair is brown now, a glossy mahogany color, she cakes on her makeup, over-emphasizing eyes and lips, wears clothing her mother would have thrown out.
But what startle him most are the smaller changes. The way she carries herself, straight, almost redolently, like a predator. The way she makes eye contact with every single man standing in front of her in a well-pressed shirt and tailor-cut business suit. It's like she's assessing them. He feels a shiver roll down his spine when she looks straight at him.
Out of curiosity, where did you find her?
Bob smiles.
Wyoming. She was out all alone, right in broad daylight. She must've gotten cocky.
I'm surprised she didn't fight you.
She couldn't. She didn't see us until we had a gun pressed to her pretty little head.
And so here she was. And here she would stay.
For now.
….
He goes to visit her when he can. He has to be careful not to show too great an interest in her, though. He is being watched.
When Bob asks him to supervise "research" on her, he knows that he is being tested. But he has no choice.
Mohinder is the one who is really in charge. He is the one who stands over her, examining her vitals, determining what should be done next. The first time he leans over her, to inspect a newly sealed wound on her shoulder, she spits in his face.
Wearily, he wipes off his face.
It's for the good of the people.
…
The Sylar death toll rises.
…..
Each day, they incrementally increase their ministrations. They find that she can survive just about anything. They try passing electricity through her, lighting her on fire, exposing her to radiation, poison, everything they can think of. When they snip off a finger and it re-grows, they have a hay-day seeing what else she can recover from. She is a fascination.
She never screams, either. Not once. Occasionally, she'll moan, but he cannot tell whether this is caused by pain or pleasure.
After each session, they hook her up to a blood bag and pump her for miracle blood. Mohinder comes in and catalogues the days work. Completely professional.
It's difficult for him to watch, but he endures it. Each time he tells himself that this will only last a little bit longer, until finally they slip up. And then he will get her out.
He tries to communicate this with his eyes. He is very careful about this, very cautious to wait until Claire is looking him straight in the eyes. At first he thinks she understands this, that she is going along with this because she understands. At first.
….
But time passes, and he does not get her out. The security is just too tight. He just can't see how to do it. He cannot look her in the eye.
So, instead, he focuses on those around them. On the men who stare a little too openly at his daughter as she writhes, strapped in to her chair or flat on the table. He wants to snap their necks for it.
They raise the voltage on the machine, and Claire goes silent.
Sir, she's flat-lining. I think that current was too strong.
It was sadness he felt as he looked over the still, white form of his daughter.
Revive her again. Keep going.
…..
She's been here for just over two months now. There is something wild about her, and it frighten him.
Bob calls him to his office.
You've done exceptional work with Ms. Bennett.
Thank you.
We were cautious, at first. We really thought you'd turn rebel on us again.
No, sir. She's one of them. No different.
Good. We trust you to remember that.
He is promoted that day.
…
It's his first opportunity to see her alone. But he is still too cautious to try to get her out. He will only do that when he knows he will succeed.
When he arrives, he taps on her window.
She looks up, stares at him like a stranger.
So he presses the com button on the wall, speaks through to her.
Claire-bear, it's me.
Yes. You.
Honey, I'm going to get you out of here. You just have to be patient.
I don't believe you.
She turns away, and that is the last time she speaks to him.
…
Mohinder doesn't come in to work one day.
He pays no attention, assumes he is ill. They continue as per usual, and he records Claire's data in Mohinder's place.
It's later that evening that he finds out.
Molly Walker is dead. Her head ripped clean open, and her brain taken.
He feels a roll of fear deep in his gut.
…
The session has been grueling. Mohinder is back, devotes himself entirely to the job. But Claire doesn't heal as fast as she used to. Not by a long shot. Lessons in pain and torture which she was formerly resilient towards now cause a complete crash of her vitals.
And what they'll do to you not even you can recover from.
His words echo brokenly in his mind. His daughter, it seems, is dying, and he has no choice but to keep moving.
When she dies for the sixth time that day, he tells the men to take a break. Explains that she will die, possibly for good, if they don't give her body the time to reorganize itself. Suggests that perhaps it's time to hook her up to the blood bags.
It's then that the alarms go off.
A black figure appears out of thin air. He looks and there is nothing, blinks and there is something. The man's darkness paints a stark contrast against the whiteness of the walls. The man turns.
Boo.
He grabs his gun, aims, but it is too late. He is flung back against a wall, hears the sickening crack of skull meeting cement. His chest tightens, the flesh within constricting painfully. He struggles to breathe.
But he is lucky.
The others are rent, flesh from bone, flung back against the walls until their bodies collapse like broken dolls and sag to the ground, leaving bright, sexual blood stains against the clean white walls. Like lipstick.
Claire's restraints are thrown off.
Sylar moves over to Claire's dead body, leans over her silent form and almost reverently brushes a few stray strands of hair back from her face. He cocks his head to the side, like he's listening for something. Waits for something- for her to breathe again. But she does not. So he places his hand over her heart and begins pumping, breathing into her mouth for her. On the third pump she gasps for air.
He can hardly breathe, hardly think, none the less hear, over the din of blood rushing to his ears.
But he can see.
He sees the way she looks into his eyes. Like she's been saved. He sees the way she wraps her arms around his neck and stands, pressing her ear against his chest. Listening to his heart beat. Watches the way he strokes her hair and holds her tight.
This disturbs him more than anything the Company had done to his Claire. No, not his Claire. He could tell- she was Sylar's Claire.
The alarms bells are still sounding, but he pays them no attention. Instead, he focuses on the serial killer walking towards him with slow, steadied steps.
He reaches for his gun, but finds it is across the room. So, instead, he prepares himself for the killing blow.
Sylar just smiles. Raises his finger.
For a moment he closes his eyes and cringes. Rises against the pain in his chest, the constriction. He realizes his arm is numb. Then he steels himself, looks to his daughter, whom he was unable to save. She clings to the murderer as if he were a life vest. Whispers something in his ear.
Sylar looks down at her, smiles reassuringly, and nods.
I'm not going to kill you, Bennett. You're already having a heart attack, so, really, there's no need.
And then he gather his daughter close. They look deeply into each other's eyes, and she smiles, cups his face, kisses him. And they are gone.
Everything fades, and his world goes black.