A/N: Written for Drabble Challenge#28 "Fire" at Heroes_Contest. Special thanks to dancingdragon3 who acted as a fantastic beta and moral support. Title Comes from John Donne's Sonnet Ten.

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"So, what about you, Claire? Do anything special today?"

"I walked through fire and I didn't get burned."

Claire couldn't believe she had ever been so naive or innocent. Her mother hadn't understood. Bless her simple, Haitianed mind; Sandra Bennet had thought her daughter was using some fancy metaphor to explain the trials and tribulations of high school.

Far from it.

Claire hadn't looked in the mirror and seen a blonde cheerleading teen in years. But, being Pinehearst's number one contracted killer wasn't just about changing your hair color or swapping pom-poms for leather; those were just peripherals. No, it was about letting your soul die a slow self-aware death. One that could be seen in the eyes of Pinehearst's top personnel – a hard glint that belied an inner acceptance that salvation was so far out of reach that there was no point in even trying anymore. The cheerleader-cum-killer had well-earned her own ticket to Hell, and she was fine with it.

Claire also didn't feel bad that she had brought a tragedy into "innocent" Gabriel Gray's home in her hunt for Peter Petrelli, Public Enemy Number One.

She didn't feel sympathy or guilt when his son died.

She didn't feel fear when she saw the stay-at-home-dad go nuclear, and her body was engulfed by the poisonous flames.

Didn't because she couldn't. That would mean having to feel a whole batch of emotions that she had already disassociated and placed in a psychological time capsule marked "2060". Doing so was a necessary action when she joined Pinehearst and devoted herself to a new life, (a living death), making her as numb internally as her incinerated flesh was externally. Who's to say that in fifty years she might not extend the expiration date?

Claire lay immobile, deaf, and blind in her impermanent grave, waiting for her own grotesque rise from the undead. When she could finally open her newly formed eyes and see her body, she noted it seemed to be regenerating from scratch. Claire appraised the bones, still growing and calcifying; and organs in various stages of recovery. She couldn't feel her limbs flush with new blood, but as her ears finally healed, she could hear the telltale wet trickling. Honing her re-awakened senses out of boredom, Claire caught the strains of something else on the wind.

Crying - the sound definitely masculine.

Claire laid still and listened to the pitiful sound. At first, she could only discern soft whimpers, but louder moaning soon rent through the air. Someone was in agony. An echo of Claire's humanity urged her to join in the cacophony of sensation. She silently reveled in the wails a moment longer before she started slowly crawling through the haze of burning detritus until she glimpsed a body.

Peter.

He wasn't the one crying. The past version of the terrorist's body, regenerated (thanks to her) and as naked as her own, was still unconscious. Vulnerable.

Claire seized a shard of jagged glass and rammed it into the back of her once beloved uncle's head with a satisfying jab, giving it a single, slow twist for good measure and personal satisfaction. There, now he was ready for transport back to Pinehearst. She wiped her bloodied hands on his baby-soft back. No need to sully herself.

She kept her eyes peeled for the moaner as she wandered through the surreal Californian landscape. Eventually she found him. Gabriel "Sylar" Gray was laying on his front, cradling his head in his hands. Something forgotten whispered in Claire's gut. She pushed it aside. Sylar didn't even seem aware of his surroundings as he continued to cough and choke. Claire stood behind him and watched as the last muscle weaved its way into place across his shoulder. Even though he was healed, his indecent display of emotionality continued. Pinehearst's finest shook her head.

So much for the new and improved Gabriel 2.0. The lab coats in Behavior Mod. weren't going to be impressed with this...regression.

Claire raised one delicate foot and nudged the failure in his side until he rolled over. Their eyes met. The intensity of the frenetic energy shining in Sylar's irises almost hurt to look into directly. Almost, but not quite. He stayed perfectly still for the second it took for Claire to drive a piece of concrete into his occipital bone.

Absently, Claire noted that her hair had re-grown blonde. Add another $19.99 bottle of slate brunette to the cost of this little adventure then. Done and done.

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A/N#2: Comments are very welcome. :) Chapter 17 of "How to Save a Life" is coming. I started it Sunday night. Wooo!