This series of one-shots is best read together, but I believe each one could be read and understood on its own. These take place post "Fugitives."

I, as the President Sylar, reserve the right to use my own work from my Facebook profile page. You are not, so you don't. Stealing my work warrants a fierce reprimand, and I have a magnificent imagination to use to your disadvantage. I am not Tim Kring, however, so I do not own Heroes.

To find the "President Sylar" ::aka Gabriel Gray::'s facebook profile, add this to the end of the facebook address: .?id=829883839&ref=profile

Happy Facebooking.

Tck-tock—tck-tock...

I close my eyes briefly, slowly drawing in a breath and letting it out again. I open my eyes. I glance at the paperwork on my desk. I tap my thumb against the page.

I glance at the clock.

Pricks like pins bristle across the back of my neck, and I can feel my body stiffen. I glance at the paperwork on my desk. I tap my thumb against the page. I breathe in. I breathe out.

I glance at the clock, and my will breaks.

Standing, I stride quickly to the cabinet, open the door, remove the glass covering, and push the hand of the clock back a fraction of an inch, just barely sliding it back into its proper place. Again. The clock keeps ticking away as it had before, its small idiosyncrasy invariably setting its pace faster than normal. It'll be off by a full second in the next twenty-five minutes and thirty-eight seconds, but the problem is solved for now. After another half an hour, however, it will be barely over two seconds off—its erroneous pulse as abrasive to my ears as a screaming chalkboard.

Broken, no matter how many times I nudge the hand back in place.

"Noah can wait," I decide finally, taking the small clock back to my desk and setting it on top of his files. This is an unquestionable priority: I will never be able to focus on anything important as long as this minor problem remains unsolved. I'm a politician—my gut tells me—not a clock repairman… But as I slip the back of the disc away and reveal the tiny working gears, everything seems to wash away, and a satisfactory ease replaces the aggravation and doubt. I can do it. I bend over the innards of the machine, some revelation clicking into place somewhere in the back of my mind. It's only a simple matter of—

"Nathan!!"

I recoil, dropping the clock, blinking hard. "God, Pete, what the hell?" I breathe, rubbing my temples with an uneasy laugh. "When did you get here?" I pause for a moment and look up, noticing the color barely returning to his face. I feel my heart drop. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing but you," he retorts, his voice verging on panic. "Nathan, I've been shouting your name for like…a whole minute." He stares hard at me, nervously tucking his still-growing hair out of his face. "Are you feeling okay? Maybe you should take a break…"

"What are you talking about?—I'm fine," I remark, and it's the truth. Whatever daze had gripped me a moment ago has all but vanished. I feel like myself. I quickly shove the clock and its guts into a drawer to be forgotten, the gears spilling out and the clock long dead. It's not fixed, I note dismally, but at least it won't be a problem anymore. Peter frowns, unconvinced.

"Alright, Nate. That's it. I'm getting you outta here." God, I love that kid. He motions toward the door with his head, throwing his bag over his shoulder in preparation. I can tell he's struggling not to grab my arm and drag me out himself, and I have to admire him for his willpower. Hopefully his determination to keep Sylar's abilities won't break this time, because whether he tries to drag me out or not, I'm not coming.

"Peter," I groan, leaning back into my chair firmly. "I really do have a lot of work to finish up here. Noah asked me—"

"Forget him, Nathan," Pete mutters, taking a step toward me. "C'mon, lunch or something. I'm just looking out for you. You haven't exactly been yourself since that day with…Sylar." His eyes are begging. I fold my arms.

"Please?"

"No."

"Nathan."

"Peter."

He frowns, and I notice the cabinet and its empty shelf against the wall, standing like an omen behind him. I sigh. "Alright. Let's go." He celebrates his victory quietly, and I leave the broken pieces of clockwork to rot in a cluttered drawer.

Senator

Nathan Petrelli