Title: FUGITIVES - by Devilishlysas83

Disclaimer/Claimer: I don't own Heroes, Sylar, Claire or any of the other characters. I just borrow them to feed my muse from time to time.
Rating: PG-13 to NC-17, for some sexuality and dark themes
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Spoilers: AU to Fugitives Season, written in the hiatus after Villains ended. General spoilers for Season 3
Word count: ~40,000
Author's Note: Originally written as two fics, the start was Captives, the follow up Fugitives, all posted together in separate chapters.

Chapter 1: Captives // Be still my beating heart

Claire stared fixedly at the wall of her cell, she shifted and the tubes pulled against her. It should have hurt, she knew that, even saw the drops of precious blood that it caused to spill, before her body healed, and the tubes and needles adjusted to her new position. How on earth they expected her to sleep like this she had no idea, perhaps it had never occurred to them, that whilst she couldn't feel anything, a dozen needles and tubes stuck all over someone strapped to a metal table was uncomfortable, no matter the 'someone'. At least from an emotional point of view, if nothing else, she was after all helpless, isolated, confined and observed from every inch by the cameras that never left. But the worst of it, was that her own father had done this to her, Nathan, a glorified sperm donor and nothing else to her now, he had hurt her more than any needle ever could. Oh of course he'd tried to make her comfortable, during the day she was permitted certain privileges that weren't given the other inmates, she was allowed to walk, chained of course around the compound, read books, watch TV... like any of that mattered! A gilded cage was still a cage, and at night even that illusion faded, when she was strapped down without fail and hooked up to the many needles and tubes that were the source of her 'special' privileges. Her blood, was stolen, night after endless night, pumped away into their eager hands, she was so 'special', God she hated that word, and even more so the fact that everyone always wanted to apply it to her. It didn't matter what she wanted though that was abundantly clear, they thought she was special, that her blood was special, and it was, it had the power to heal mortal wounds and even bring people back from the dead, at least once, so far even they're best scientists hadn't found a way to repeat the miracle of life twice with the same patient. They had hoped to find the answer comparing her blood to Peter's... that name it was the first time she had realised that he had to be here somewhere too, as they discussed him over her, like she was invisible. But for whatever reasons Peter could do would others could, it didn't extend to his blood, he could only heal himself, not others, and that made him useless to them... just a danger nothing more.

Of course she'd asked after Peter from then on, wanted to see him, however briefly, and they'd promised she could, when he had learnt to respect this institution. The way they'd said it left her under no illusions as to how they intended to teach him that respect, even if she saw him, Peter wouldn't be in a gilded cage. Then one day they stopped answering her request to see him. They never lied, it was something she'd realised, trusted, apparently it set a bad precedent truth was always so much worse... so they simply stopped answering her pleas. Leaving her with two options, either Peter had died, or he'd escaped. Claire wasn't sure which she preferred now, in death at least Peter would be free of them, but if he'd escaped and left her here... she never let that thought complete, not even at night staring blankly at the walls as her blood dripped away.

Once she'd hoped there would be a limit to her body's ability to provide them their miracle cure, that her body would run dry. There had been, they simply added a saline nutrient drip to her arm during these sessions, containing sugars, proteins and essential acids, everything her body needed to keep chugging out the good stuff. But she had learnt something else in this time, something she hoped to use to escape... she didn't need to sleep. Apparently she had merely been doing it out of habit all this time, but so far, she was up to at least 17 nights now and nothing, no sleep, with no apparent effects. So every night, when they hooked her up, always with a smile for their favourite little miracle, happy in the knowledge that they couldn't hurt her, and that she was saving lives, they waited for her to sleep. Maybe they expected her to be weakened by the blood loss, or just tired following normal sleep patterns, accepting that she would be regardless, and so unconscious unable to plan during the one time their guard was low.

So dutifully every night she'd close her eyes, and pretend. And every night she tested the limits of her restraints, and the attentiveness of the night watchmen behind the camera. Judging for herself the passage of time by keeping count from the moment the huge metal door thudded shut and sealed in place. By doing this she was able to work out a rough idea of when the guards fell asleep at their posts by when they stopped coming to get her to settle down, and they rotated, 3 guards took her shift each week, and she was certain she had all their schedules memorized. Now she knew when to make her escape... it was the how that she was stuck on. The needles whirred, reminding her of the problems, as they retracted; spun and fresh needles were inserted into her flesh, the temperatures and contact sensors beeping until they were reattached. This was their ingenious solution to dealing with her body's unique ability to not only push out foreign objects, but to degrade them if they were an obstruction for too long, even titanium tips like the ones they were using. It was a blessing in one way she supposed, that she couldn't feel anything, as they rotated and reinserted like clockwork six times a night. In another it was torture; she should be able to feel the terrible things they did to her body, just like everyone else locked up here had to. Otherwise it just gave them license to absolve themselves of everything they did, after all if they weren't hurting her how could it be wrong? She knew that was what her so called father told himself so he could sleep nights, along with his little patriotic speech about making the world safe, helping people. All his noble goals and ideals fell on deaf ears... you couldn't save people, when it came from the suffering of others. The idea that she shared genes with the man, a monster whether he believed it or not, sickened her.

Her other problem was the door itself, a metal bolted monstrosity, circular in design and pressure locked. It required too large uniformed men to push it open and pull it closed; there were no electrical systems in it to help. Not here when electrics could be overruled or burnt out by the 'freaks'. No expense had been spared on her little chamber of death. It was hopeless, she was indestructible, and so was the door. How could she escape this?

Claire screamed, long, loud and filled with her despair and frustration. Her unending scream sent people running and scuttling into her cell, lab techs, guards, all of them. They fussed and checked their instruments, finding nothing wrong with them, or her, of course. But she couldn't stop, not once she'd started, the screams turned into desperate grating shrieks... so they called the shrinks and her father, which just made her scream louder. Then it happened, their little miracle cure, had her own miracle, something so wonderful she saw it in their horrified faces first, and then in the bleeping of the monitors... panic.

Her body, her wonderful fucked up body and finally responded to her pain! The shrieks and screams turned into manic laughter, huge whooping, rasping laughs that had them all backing away to await the shrink. But she had eyes for only one thing... the empty blood bags.

They wasted no time, the needles went to work on her, rotating, trying to find new spots, deeper, but there was nothing, nada, when they were done there wasn't a centimetre of skin they hadn't tried. 'Hyper cellular organisation' they called it, her body had learnt to consider the needles a threat, and had responded defensively. But they were still unclear if her body had learnt it itself, or if she had somehow made it happen. Her screaming fit wasn't exactly leading them to give her the benefit of the doubt. The blood-flow was stopping whenever a needle pierced the vessels, refusing to flow past or into the obstruction, preferring to cut off the vessel from the rest of her circulatory system. Letting it die to repair it later for the greater good of the whole. They let her watch it on the screen, her blood suffused with dyes and markers so they could track it, as she watched the needles enter, and the vessel collapse. It didn't matter how many vessels they tried it on, the result was the same, her body could heal her through almost anything; it simply waited until the needle was removed, rather than loose blood volume. She'd laughed, right to their faces, in fact it was all she'd been able to do since it had happened, which of course furthered their believe that it was a mental effect, something she was actively doing, or more likely had triggered, since it persisted when she was unconscious.

Nathan had tried a parental approach after the shrinks failed to stop her hysteria. Telling her how disappointed he was in her, perhaps expecting his pleas to think of all the wounded soldiers and company men that she was letting die, to spark some sort of sympathy. It might have worked if they'd simply asked her for help from the start, for her to donate the blood to save lives. But they hadn't no one had ever offered her the choice; they'd stolen her freedom, her blood, her life, from her perspective they could all go to hell!

It didn't take them long to find a way around it. Oh it wasn't a perfect solution, as Nathan and the doctors reminded her scornfully each day, for either of them. They got barely a fraction of the blood they once did, but they did get it. A tube directly into her heart ensured that, but it meant that movement was no longer a luxury afforded her; she was strapped completely immobile day and night by metal clasps, she couldn't even turn her head. The sharpened tube would go in, and her body would react, the vessels in and around her heart would collapse, and her heart would stop beating. The monitors would erupt in the sound of alarms, and there was always that moment of panic from the techs as their pale faces tightened with anxiety as their cash cow flat-lined, but their little blood bank was only good if it was making blood. She'd black out, her brain starved of oxygen... then she'd wake up to the sound of her own heart beating, sluggishly, reluctantly. From what they told her, her heart would stop for precisely 11 minutes, like clockwork every time, she would lose consciousness after 2 minutes, and wake up on the 12th minute. Apparently whatever her bodies new grievance to needles it wouldn't let her die to spite them, and so it suffered the intrusion, at least partially. Blood volume remained reduced and her heart beat a mere 12 beats a minute. Just enough to keep her body alive and her brain semi-conscious. Enough for them to siphon off a small amount each night, enough to save or heal one person she was informed bitterly by her father, nothing in comparison to the 8+ they used to manage off her a night. She couldn't help but see it as a small victory, sick as that still sounded to her. But the idea that she had taken back control, even such a small amount, it was still hers.

They punished her the only way they knew how to punish someone that couldn't be hurt physically. Dragging her from the 'slaughter house' as she'd nicknamed it, into a vast hall, full of people, inmates like her, freaks, monsters, heroes, villains all of them, all the same here. Some faces she recognised the majority she didn't. They'd forced her to her knees, carefully, handling her like china, the indestructible girl that they wouldn't harm... The commander of this facility, at least that was who he had introduced himself as, Deacon, his voice rang out loud and clear in the still air, telling them all why they were here. That she, Claire, had disobeyed, cost lives, had used her powers against them... a clear violation of the rules. That every pain she deserved, every punishment she required would be inflicted on them, that she would watch as others suffered in her place. Their screams when they began should have been hers, but never could be. Maybe they expected her to beg, to plead for them, but her heart grew cold and fury swelled with each tormented cry they drew from those like her. Little Molly's worst of all, she'd met the girl briefly at the plaza that night a life time ago when she had lost Peter the first time. Molly was useful to them, their tracker, and yet she was punished, no one was above reproach... except the little cheerleader from Texas they couldn't hurt, couldn't stop, couldn't kill. She laughed, that bubbling dark hysteria over took her again; just like that day her blood had stopped flowing. The guards holding her on her knees released her dropping her with disgust. Then she spoke, she never spoke, not since the first night they'd strapped her to that table for the night. Perhaps that was why they listened.

"You can't hurt me... no one can. You can't punish me, can't kill me, you can't even make me bleed, not anymore. But for some reason you think you can break my heart instead?" she looked directly at the commander, and then to his superior behind the camera. "My heart stopped beating a while ago, you should know, you stopped it. Isn't that what all those monitors and doctors told you when you stuck your goddamn needles and tubes in me!" she laughed again, but it was cold and dark, there was no amusement left in any ounce of her body, as she rose smoothly, fluidly even after all this time, to her feet. Claire ignored the pleading looks of her fellow captives as they begged with their eyes for her to stop, to not make it worse, to provoke their fury.

"I die every night just to stop you, and every time my heart splutters back to life, you get less of your miracle. I stopped the blood, me, I stopped it, I stopped you. And one day I'll find a way to stop it forever. Because your right, I don't care, not about you Father," she spat the word out snidely to the camera, "not about your little patriots or your company men, or the rest of the freaks in here. I'm dead; my body just won't accept it yet!"

Those fellow freaks had surprised her in that moment, bloodied, restrained, and broken, they had cheered. Not all, never all, but enough of them, enough to rouse the other into something, some sort of fight, of spirit. Something they had almost lost, forgotten, their hatred almost lost to despair. She'd been dragged away, laughing still, as the noise grew deafening, screams and shouts and hands and feet thumping through restraints to be heard.

After that there were no privileges at all, Nathan's daughter, miracle cure or not, she was hostile, violent, and an agitator. The tube never left her heart, except to be replaced by another fresh one when it was almost worn through. Half conscious the world passed her by and escape became a distant memory, a dream half remembered, like the concept of sleep itself. They would have kept her sedated, but that would have tainted their blood. So she lay there, immobile, undying, and unable to live, unfeeling and completely unable to remember what it should feel like.

Time passed.

Alarms rang through her hazed state of awake, but she wasn't concerned, they were just her heart monitor as the tube was replaced, just normal sounds. Only the sounds didn't fade, and her eyes shot open, adrenalin giving life to long dead blood, as other noises joined the alarm, which had not cut off. The ground trembled, rocked by a deafening explosion beyond her metal and concrete cage. There were shouts, and gunfire, screams and rattling, then the metal around her door bowed, buckling outwards... was this escape? Had someone come to rescue her, or kill her... she was after all the reason the company, the 'division' and it's people wouldn't stay dead, why their wounds barely slowed them. The metal groaned again, invisible hands seeming to be tearing at it from behind. Then tendrils of ice lanced along the concrete wall encasing the doorway, before the metal itself began to glow red hot. Too hot, she would have given anything to feel the heat that singed her hair, as the concrete began to shatter against the pounding from beyond.

A voice in her mind caused her to flinch, "We're coming, we won't leave you here." Shouts from outside followed, and frustrated cries, the voice in her mind seemed to falter. They couldn't free her, the cell is too thick, too well designed against their abilities, this was a prison built to contain them and her cell was fort knox... where the Divisions gold was kept.

"Go." She whispered. More pounding. "Leave me!" she screams at them finally finding her voice again. "Bring it all down, blow it all to hell!"

"You'll be buried alive." The voice in her head reminds her, horrified at the suggestion, she remembers him, the policeman that had once shot her to save her mother... Parkman.

"Just get out of here." She pleads with the silent voice in her mind. "Bury me deep, don't let them reach me, use me again!"

The voice in her minds anguish was clear, his feelings translated to her through his ability, as the pounding ceased and the red hot glow faded as the ice melted. Claire stifled a sob, strapped to her metal world.

"I am so sorry, we're so sorry Claire."

Then they were gone, he was gone. She was alone, only the building didn't tremble and collapse around her, did that mean they'd failed? Or had they escaped only to fail to find away to see it destroyed? Either way she was still here, still theirs... his, able to be used against people just like her. It was worse than death. Perhaps that was all it took, perhaps her heart had finally heard her, because her wretched, obstinate body faltered. The alarm beeped, a warning, tentative, prepared. It was such a sweet sound... the failing of her heart. The alarm rang now from her monitor increasing its insistence as her heart lost its own. She would free herself, from the only prison that had ever threatened to hold her forever... life.

The heart monitor flickered, electrical disturbance, but it continued its droll sound, counting the end of her heartbeat. Her eyes remained open, waiting watching not wanting to miss a moment of her own death, enough to watch the metal door melt into nothing but a pool of molten liquid before her very hazy eyes. The tube was torn free of her chest, like the monstrous thing it was and flung across the room as far from her as was possible, the sensors followed. Then the metal bindings snapped open as the monitor was hurled into the nearby wall, smashing and falling silent finally. But her eyes were heavy, her limbs weak, the monitor hadn't lied her heart had given in.

"NO!" the roar was almost enough in itself to startle her back to consciousness. "Don't you dare give in, not now!" The voice boomed at her, so close, it was compelling, she wanted to obey, but the blackness was creeping now into her mind. She could almost feel the blood, her precious blood thickening and running cold... stopping. Hands grasped her face, large and solid, dark eyes latched onto her heavy ones, trying to hold her with their gaze, so intense full of power and rage. The memory of Peter rose in her mind, had he come back for her? Too late.

"No it's not too late Claire. You stop this death is not the answer!" the voice and the dark eyes raged against her apathy. "You did this, you made this happen, all of them they escaped because of you, you gave them hope... don't you lose it!" Poor sad Peter, hope hadn't saved her or them; hope hadn't made her rage against them that day, it had been despair. But blood her blood had begun to pulse again, it wasn't Peter's voice, she knew that now.

Curiosity was what bought her back in the end; she'd wanted to see the face of her rescuer. There was nothing between the moment she'd decided not to die, and the moment her body lurched alive again, fully healed. Her eyes flew open, unclouded as blood rushed to starved organs and limbs. Claire met the face of her saviour, the dark eyes, liquid black in brows just as dark. A man she should have known would be able to shred her cell like tissue paper. A man, more monster to her than anything else, or at least he had been.

"Sylar." It was not a question and her voice didn't waver or reveal the terror she'd once put into that one word, but could no longer feel.

He didn't answer, or wait for further questions, his hands slid beneath her almost naked body, only the hospital gown protecting her modesty from him as he fled the destroyed cell. She would have protested the need to carry her at all, after all there was nothing wrong with her now, except his reason became apparent as the world flew past them at a dizzying pace. Objects people, even the building, nothing but a blur as wind whipped against her. Then the air changed, they were outside, she snatched enough images of the surroundings to recognise the courtyard she had once been permitted to walk in chains. Sylar didn't slow or stop until they were far clear of the buildings, and the forest beyond, then he slowed and she was able to make out shapes, figures of people, a large group. He skidded to a halt in front of them, still not releasing her.

"You left her!" his voice was like a knife; fury welled in it and cut them all.

"Sylar?" Confusion, hesitation in their voices, "We had no choice." Parkman stepped up and she noticed his shrunken form, nothing like her memory, thin and filthy, with a wild look to once kind eyes. "We tried... she knows that. That cell was fort knox!" her thoughts exactly.

"Claire?" another voice called out from the darkness, hidden by the trees, she knew the voice but the memory failed her. "Is she alright?" another voice. "We have to move, they'll be coming." And another, so many of them had escaped tonight.

"I came here for Claire; the rest of you can rot for all I care." Sylar spat at them all, then they were gone again, speeding through the night, cities and lights flying by one after the other. Claire had no voice to speak to him, Sylar the monster of her darkest nightmares... her hero.