Note: This story is purposely told out of order. It's kind of crazy, but bear with me, okay? The chapters are labeled with the order they fall chronologically if you'd rather read it that way, but in my opinion it's best read in the order I've posted it.

Baltimore, MD

Gabe Nathanson's Apartment

Matt Parkman stands outside the door of a tenth floor apartment in the heart of the city. He scuffs his feet on the carpet and ponders what course of action to take. Should he knock politely? Perhaps it would be best if he kicked the door open and stormed in with righteous indignation. There is a sly chuckle in his ear, and he shakes his head violently, as if such an act could dislodge his unwelcome guest. He considers himself lucky that no one has walked past him since his arrival at the apartment complex. This may not be the ritziest neighborhood, but it's a far cry from the dump Mohinder used to live in. If someone were to overhear his whispered arguments with himself, he'd be thrown out on the streets before he could even recite his badge number. If he was still in the NYPD, and if the man he was looking for was still cutting people's skulls open, the door would be in splinters. But he's come to see Gabe Nathanson, the unassuming graduate student, not the monster from his nightmares.

"And daymares, too", comes the sly, malicious whisper from just behind his shoulder.

Brute force and righteous indignation wouldn't get him very far, he concludes. Allowing his emotions to get the best of him would mean surrendering the upper hand. The man he came to see is a slippery, smug bastard, and the only way to get his attention is to play his games even better than the man himself. He takes a calming breath and raises a hand to knock on the door, but the door swings open before he can touch knuckles to wood. The man on the other side leans against the doorframe and asks mildly, "What can I do for you, Detective?"

Matt takes stock of his appearance slowly. He knows, and the other man knows, that it's nothing but a stalling tactic to let him find another tack to regain the upper hand he suspects he never had to begin with. The man is of a height with him, with close-cropped hair and a scar on his chin. He has dark eyes and a large nose and a thin mouth and unremarkable eyebrows. Matt snickers a little, and one of the unremarkable eyebrows rises in a silent query.

"You kept your nose, but not your eyebrows?" Matt asks, and though he'd intended to project an air of authority and purpose into his surprise visit, his impulsive question seems to be the right approach, because the man once known as Sylar laughs a little and opens the door wider.

"I played around with different combinations for hours," 'Gabe Nathanson' says, beckoning Matt inside with a wave of his hand. "This seemed like the best fit for the new me." He leads Matt to the living room and sits in an overstuffed armchair. Though he sits upright, with one ankle crossed casually across the opposing knee, he gives an unmistakable impression of carefree lounging. "Make yourself at home," he adds when Matt hesitates at the edge of the couch.

Matt sits and stares around the room in unabashed fascination. The walls are lined with bookshelves filled from floor to ceiling with weighty texts on an impressive array of topics. There are three shelves dedicated to neurology, another two for abnormal psychology, four for military history—Nathan's influence, he's sure—two on world religions, one on architecture. There's an entire bookcase on all things Indian, which shouldn't surprise him but does nonetheless. He isn't surprised by the lack of fiction in 'Nathanson's' collection. Their lives are too close to what normal people would consider a good plot for escapist fantasies for them to appreciate a good novel anymore. There's a worn and obviously well loved chess set in the corner, stopped halfway through the game. Matt doesn't know much about chess, but the players seem to be well matched.

"How did you find me?" 'Nathanson' asks. "I thought I did a pretty thorough job covering my tracks."

"Oh, please," Matt retorts. "You couldn't have made it easier to find you than if you had a neon sign outside your apartment building that said 'Sylar Is Here'. For someone who claims to be so smart you made some idiotic mistakes. You're a grad student at the same university that Bennett's daughter is attending, Micah Sanders is living with you, and to top it all off, you decided your alias was going to be 'Gabriel Nathanson' of all names? Did you want us to find you?" He's not just a little disgruntled when 'Nathanson's' smirk grows to Cheshire cat proportions, and he realizes to his chagrin that he's just had his chain yanked very effectively.

"After the Building Twenty-Six debacle, Bennett and his cohorts seem much more willing to watch from a distance rather than bring me in. As long as I keep my nose clean and stay on their radar, they don't send in the heavy hitters to take me down." 'Nathanson' frowned playfully. "Not that it's stopped everyone else under the sun from showing up at my door unannounced." He says it with such amusement that Matt is immediately curious who else has been brave enough to come see the boogeyman in his own home.

That stops him cold. He's unarmed, without backup, in Sylar's home. It had been foolish to fly in from L.A. without a plan, and it was incredibly stupid of him to let 'Nathanson's' easygoing attitude and cozy home put him at ease. He wishes he had thought to bring his gun. A cruel laugh echoes behind him and he knows without a shadow of a doubt why he'd overlooked all the problems with his idea to confront Sylar. He tenses in his seat, prepared to either run or fight.

"But I digress," 'Nathanson' says smoothly, his sharp eyes noting and dismissing Matt's unease. "You clearly came for a reason, Detective. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Just tell me already," his shadow goads him, and it's only from months of practice that he's able to not react. "Hurry it up, Parkman. You're boring me."

"Think it over," 'Nathanson' says at Matt's silence. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"You could kill me," Matt blurts before he can stop himself, and both 'Nathanson' and his shadow chuckle at that.

"I'm too weak to kill you," his shadow says derisively. "Just look at me. It's sickening how tame I am."

"Well, gee, Parkman," 'Nathanson' drawls, "That's awfully tempting, but I think I'll pass. Miss Walker would cry if I so much as pointed at you, and if I made her cry, Micah would be very put out with me."

The dark humor in the answer is so completely Sylar that Matt can't breathe for a moment. Then 'Nathanson' tips him a friendly wink, as if to say that Matt's in on the joke, and it's a smooth and polished gesture that wouldn't be out of place on a politician's face. His stomach does a lazy, nauseating flip – he frankensteined Petrelli's personality on to a sociopath's brain and the product is joking about death with him.

"Jesus," he says under his breath. He thinks he might be stunned by the total insanity of the situation, but then again, it could be shock that he had expected this conversation to be a lot less civil. His thoughts must show on his face, because the mischievous little smirk 'Nathanson' is wearing suddenly has a hard edge to it.

"This is all your fault," his shadow accuses him. "You went and turned me into something weak! I make myself want to puke," he says petulantly. "Get me back in my body. NOW." Matt can't completely stop himself from flinching at his shadow's words.

'Nathanson' gives him an appraising once-over. "You certainly didn't come here just to satisfy your curiosity," he states matter-of-factly. "To be honest, you look like crap, Detective. Not getting enough sleep?" There's nothing but honest concern in his face. Still, Matt can't shake the feeling that 'Nathanson' is enjoying his discomfort.

"Oh, I am," his shadow doesn't hesitate to say. "You may have neutered me, but I think this is ten kinds of funny."

Instead of answering 'Nathanson', Matt says, "So how's grad school working out for you? You, uh, pick up any new hobbies?" He's really trying to ask about the chess set, but when the words come out he hears only a very clumsy reference to Sylar's killing sprees. "Um – I mean–"

"I know what you meant," 'Nathanson' interrupts. To Matt's relief, he looks more entertained than angry. "School is fine. I'm working on my Master's in civil engineering. It's an interesting field." He smirks. "I'm the TA for the life drawing class. There was this cute little liberal arts major who was supposed to have the job, but apparently there was a last minute scheduling conflict with the rest of her classes." 'Nathanson' opens his eyes wide and innocent. "Computers these days – they're so unreliable."

Matt is startled into a laugh, and he stifles it guiltily. "You shouldn't be getting Micah to do illegal things for you," he says instead. "That kid is going to grow up with no respect for the law."

"That kid is still running the Rebellion out of his room," 'Nathanson' tells him. "And he's got a better grasp on right and wrong than people twice his age. Don't worry about the Boy Genius, Detective. He's going to be just fine." He looks almost fond as he speaks.

Matt's shadow grinds his teeth loudly. "You're the first one I'm going to kill when I get my body back," he snarls at Matt. "I'm going to take my time with you. I'm going to break all your bones, and string you up with your own guts. Then I'm going to take a hacksaw to your skull and piss all over your brain. And then–"

Matt groans aloud and drops his head into his hands. "Shut up," he moans quietly.

Not quietly enough. "Is something wrong, Detective?" 'Nathanson' asks solicitously, and this time there's no mistaking the amusement being had at his expense.

"I have a headache," Matt mumbles, and his shadow cackles. "So, what happened with the whole psycho killer thing? I figured you'd still be kind of evil. Or crazy. Don't take this the wrong way, but you're kind of, uh, normal for a brain stealing murderer."

"I wondered about that myself, back when I first got my memories back," 'Nathanson' replies, rolling his eyes when Matt shifts guiltily in his seat. "I've done worse, Parkman. Get over it – I did." He pauses to see if Matt has anything to say, then continues speaking. "Anyway, the Boy Genius got me in touch with a woman in Georgia who took a look at my mind and sorted out my memories for me. According to her, I'm psychosis free."

"So she's not…" Matt mimes a slice across his own forehead with his index finger.

'Nathanson' actually looks offended at the idea. "What? No. No, Dot is alive and kicking. She's my chess partner," he adds. "We play by phone."

"I didn't take her power?" Matt's shadow yells in disbelief. "I'm – I'm toothless! You ruined me, Parkman!" The explosion of noise in Matt's ear makes him wince.

"It's not just a headache, is it?" 'Nathanson' asks. The speculative gleam in his eyes frightens Matt much less than he suspects it should. "Spit it out, Parkman," he prompts Matt impatiently. "I promised a friend I'd make lasagna for dinner if she did her homework well, and I need to get started soon."

Matt shakes his head. "I need your help," he admits reluctantly. "When I made you – you know–" He fumbles for the words, and 'Nathanson' cuts him off.

"When you very helpfully shoved a conscience back into my mind," he supplies. "Thank you very much for that, by the way."

"Right," Matt says awkwardly. "When I did that, I kind of, uh, accidentally picked up a mental hitchhiker, if you get my drift."

"Hitchhiker?" his shadow sputters indignantly. "More like prisoner. You think this is fun for me?"

'Nathanson' sits up straight, startled. "You–" He cuts himself off abruptly, and presses his lips together as if he's trying to stifle some overwhelming emotion. "Excuse me for a moment," he says in a strangled voice, and he stands and walks from the room.

Matt hears a door open and close, and after a brief moment of silence, raucous laughter fills the apartment. He sits frozen in place, surprised and a bit hurt by 'Nathanson's' reaction. Not in any of a dozen scenarios had he imagined it playing out quite like this. His shadow growls and stomps around the room in a rage, and Matt can – sort of – see the humor in the situation.

An indistinct voice breaks into 'Nathanson's' laughter, presumably to ask a question. 'Nathanson' replies in a low voice, still chortling. The first voice speaks again, and 'Nathanson' reopens the door in time for Matt to catch the tail end of the speaker's comment.

"–Weird how many people with multiple personalities I know," Micah says, and when Matt's shadow howls in outrage Matt snorts with laughter.

Micah follows 'Nathanson' back into the living room, lingering at the edge of the room as 'Nathanson' retakes his seat. He watches Matt curiously.

"I'm sorry, Detective," 'Nathanson' says, grinning broadly. "It seems like I have even more to thank you for. I must admit, I've been very curious as to where my inner nutcase disappeared to."

"He's here," Matt sighs. "It's a total mystery to me why you were so good at eluding capture. All he does is talk about killing." He watches his shadow draw a finger across his throat menacingly, and turns back to 'Nathanson'. "He has a very one track mind."

"He's completely insane," 'Nathanson' agrees. "The only reason I was able to kill so many people back then is that there was still quite a lot of Gabriel Gray left in me. Without the ability to think in the long term or come up with contingency plans, I'd most likely have been put down like the rabid dog I was, before I'd racked up such an…impressive body count." His frank assessment of his past behavior is somewhat impressing to Matt.

"I hate to break it to you," 'Nathanson' continues, "but I don't have any abilities that could help with your situation. Have you tried asking Pete for help? He could borrow your ability and…" He trails off when Matt shakes his head.

"Peter isn't supposed to know what happened," Matt says. "Angela was very clear about that. She doesn't want him traumatized; she thinks he's too sensitive." Matt privately disagrees with Angela's opinion of her youngest son – not that he'll ever tell her that. For someone with such a passive power, the Petrelli matriarch is incredibly intimidating.

"You'd be surprised how much Pete knows," 'Nathanson' says. "Angela doesn't give him enough credit. But if you don't want him involved, we can help you figure something else out." He stares at Matt pensively. "What do you want done?"

"I want him gone," Matt says immediately, and his shadow seethes until he relents and adds, "And he wants his body back."

"Tough luck for Sylar, then," 'Nathanson' says. "There's no way I'm letting that kind of insanity back in my head." He smiles tauntingly, and Matt has a feeling the smile is meant for his shadow. "The thing is, Detective, Sylar doesn't just need my body. He needs me if he wants to make it more than a day without being captured. Unfortunately for him, I can get along just fine when I'm not an unhinged, bloodthirsty lunatic."

"Liar!" Matt's shadow spits. "I'm the special part of me. I'm NOTHING without me."

"You're really not Sylar anymore," Matt states, a bit chagrined that it took him so long to realize this. "I mean, I know being Nathan affected you, but you really changed."

'Nathanson' raises his eyebrows in surprise at Matt's words. "I thought you would have read my mind and figured that out as soon as I let you in," he admits. "Why didn't you?"

Matt feels his ears heat up and knows they must be bright red from his embarrassment. "I didn't think I should," he says. "The last time I went in your mind without your permission, you woke up thinking you were someone else. You're the last person I'd eavesdrop on, after that."

"I appreciate that," 'Nathanson' says sincerely. "If you want to, though, I won't mind if you do."

With an invitation like that, Matt can't pass up the opportunity, and he leans forward, concentrating hard on 'Nathanson's' thoughts. He doesn't try to listen for anything specific – he stretches his consciousness until he's swamped by 'Nathanson's' personality. He lets it break over him in waves. There's a keen intellect and thirst for knowledge, a dry, sardonic sense of humor, a surprising protective attitude toward his loved ones – that he even has loved ones comes as a shock – and children, an unshakeable air of authority…and lots of guilt, funneled into a streak of responsibility a mile wide. He pulls his awareness back into the physical world and realizes that Micah is addressing him.

At Matt's blank look, Micah repeats himself. "Can Sylar take over your body?"

"No," Matt says, "He's just very annoying."

"I think I'll kill you second," his shadow threatens. "I'll strap you to a chair and make you watch as I kill little Matty Junior. Doesn't that sound like fun, Parkman?"

Micah nods and looks relieved. "Do you think Dot would help him?" he asks Nathanson. "I bet she would."

"I was about to suggest that," Nathanson says. He twitches his fingers and a pen and notepad fly off of a shelf and into his hands. He scrawls something on the top sheet and rips it off, folding it in half before handing it to Matt.

Matt accepts the paper uncertainly, surprised that his problem seems to have such an easy answer.

Nathanson correctly interprets the look on his face. "She likes shortbread cookies," he advises Matt. "You might want to pick up a tin before visiting. And brush up on your chess game. She'll probably challenge you to a match while you're there."

"So – she can get rid of him for me?" Matt asks. "For good?"

"Just like steel toed boots get rid of cockroaches," Nathanson affirms with relish. "Believe me, one little powerless maniac is no problem." He seems even more thrilled with the prospect than Matt.

"Okay," Matt says, and he stands, unsure of what to say. "I, uh. Thanks. Thanks a lot." He heads to the front door, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Nathanson doesn't have anything else to say or do before he leaves.

"Hey, Parkman," Nathanson calls out. He gets up and joins Matt at the door. "If you ever get the urge…feel free to drop by again." For the first time, a hint of uncertainty creeps into Nathanson's eyes, and Matt is sure that it's a holdover from when Nathanson was just Gabriel Gray. "I mean it. Any time."

"Thanks," Matt says again. He weighs his words carefully before saying, "I'd like that…Gabe."

A surprisingly sweet smile spreads across Nathanson's face, and he thumps Matt's shoulder companionably. "Take care of yourself…Matt." He gives Matt a gentle shove out the door and closes it behind him, still smiling.

Matt unfolds the paper and reads the three lines Nathanson scrawled across the page.

Dorothea King

Corner of Milledge Terrace and Hope Avenue

Athens, Georgia

"You're never going to get rid of me," his shadow threatens. "If I can't have my body back, at least I can make your life a living hell until the day I die."

"Shut up, Sylar," Matt says tolerantly, feeling remarkably lighthearted all of a sudden. He tunes out his shadow's bluster and heads for the elevators, his steps purposeful. He has a tin of shortbread to purchase, and a psychic to visit.