A/N: So I'm thinking that this will probably be one of the last Heroes stories I will write. It's been almost 2 years since the show last aired and maybe it is time for me to accept it and move on. People don't mourn the loss of family members quite as long as I have. However, I do feel compelled to finish the slaveverse series I started- perhaps as a last goodbye to the characters I have grown to love. Parting is such sweet sorrow…

Chapter 1- Flesh for Fantasy

Peter sat alone in the dark bar listlessly twirling the little red straw in his Jack & Coke he was forced to buy as a condition of gaining entry into the sleazy establishment. It was a superficial formality for him because he had no hope of getting drunk although at that moment he very much wished he could. Furthermore, he was infinitely glad that he stuck to his guns and refused to bring Claire along to such a place. Noah would have his head on a stake if he brought his precious Claire-Bear even though she was the one who tipped him off. The whole place smelled like piss, beer, and other things he cared not to guess the origin of and he squeezed his eyes shut tight. It was partially due to the stale smoke of cheap cigarettes which hung heavy in the air like a toxic blanket, but it really had more to do with not seeing the very thing he came for. He heard rumors about it but he just couldn't make himself believe it and thus he had to see it for himself, but he was seriously regretting his resolve to satiate his curiosity. Now that he was there, he felt mildly sick and as dirty as the sticky floor his shoes stuck to.

The postwar years had not been as productive as he hoped and in truth, he had to wonder if specials were really any better off than they had been as slaves. Even though he was an idealist, at his heart even he had his doubts that Nathan with all his gravitas could sway the entire nation's well entrenched beliefs that those with abilities were anything but foreign, dangerous, and less than. Of course as with anything in life, he realized that where you were depended largely on where you began and just as before, his family name put him way ahead of others in the race. Life for him hadn't been so bad after the war but that was because he was connected in ways that put him in contact with those who were in power and had influence. He had a good job with the government as a medical specialist working on a team that was a good mix of those with abilities and those without who all functioned on the premise of mutual respect. For him, Nathan's vision of a harmonious society had been realized, but not everyone was so lucky and many struggled just to survive. The current situation was proof positive of the reality that many faced.

Peter's eyes helplessly flickered to the sight a few feet away although he didn't want to see- or even believe- it was real. It was like passing the scene of a gruesome car accident knowing he would be scarred by what he witnessed, but he was unable to look away entirely. In the soft smoky haze of the stage lights, the lithe body gracefully and slowly moved to the haunting melody of the music and it was disorientingly beautiful in all its improbability. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the tight muscles of the thigh, long and lean and the gentle curve of a hip, the taught skin slightly yellowed by the stage lights. The toned muscles of the arms and back flexed slightly as the dancer intermittently bent to retrieve the sweaty, crumpled bills hastily thrown onto the stage in appreciation for the performance.

"You move like I want to. To see like your eyes do…"

The dancer made the rounds on the stage, slowly and seductively picking and choosing those in the crowd irrespective of gender who might offer the biggest tip in exchange for what they mistakenly believed to be lust and desire solely for them. A quick pass of the tongue over full lips, shy smiles, smoldering eyes that spoke of a willingness to fulfill every fantasy…

"We are downstairs where no one can see new life break away. Tonight I feel like more."

The dancer moved from the stage and entertained the crowd one by one, pausing when dead presidents made their way into willing hands, but disapproving looks were doled out to those who attempted to touch. It was an option, but that was a separate fee and there were those more than willing to pay for the privilege as Peter well knew. It was perhaps the most oddly non-sexual completely seductive act Peter had ever seen. Somehow the dancer was able to coax the patrons into giving up their hard earned money not by the usual lewd grinding that most resorted to, but by creating an almost coy sense of unobtainability that only made them want more.

"You breathed, then you stopped. I breathed and dried you off. Tonight I feel…feel like more."

It was unfortunate that every time the singer said "more" it sounded like "murder" but it was fitting enough. As Peter sat there swallowing his disgust, he wondered if it was some sick joke that the crowd didn't get and he was glad more than ever that Maria was dead and didn't have to watch Sylar resort to the life he had just to get by. But through it all, damn it if he wasn't absolutely mesmerized by his show. Judging by the wad of cash in his hands as he left the stage wearing little more than he was the day he brought him home from Tipton's tent, he certainly knew how to work a crowd and if anything he got better at picking out easy prey.

"Hot damn!" The DJ catcalled. Sylar took a final bow with a menacingly sarcastic smirk on his lips as though he were mocking his very benefactors for lining his proverbial pockets. It was as if he was getting the last laugh by making them all think he was the one at a disadvantage, but then again, it was a rouse that had worked perfectly well for him before. "Let's hear it one last time for our resident Dark Angel, Gabriel!"

Peter halfheartedly clapped along with everyone else's enthusiastic support although he couldn't have been more disingenuous. All he could think about was watching Sylar's body move so languidly and his dark, seductive eyes- a body that he had known all too well inside and out and eyes that had seen so much more than any of the patrons could have guessed. All Peter could see when he closed his eyes was Sylar on the autopsy table, emptied and dead, and yet he survived and used his assets to cast a seductive spell on the crowd. Did the pretty bachelorette in the front row know she was looking into the eyes of a killer as he carefully yet flirtatiously removed the large denomination bill from between her breasts with his teeth? Did any of them realize how manipulative he was? As Peter looked around the establishment he sighed and wondered how many of them cheered for his death only a few years before. Some of them may have even made the pilgrimage to Washington to see his body on display, but as it stood not one of them seemed to realize who he really was as if the staggering coincidence of a guy looking exactly like the notorious terrorist with the same name wasn't a giant red flag. To be fair, he had let his hair grow out a little and Peter wasn't sure if it was just the stage lights or if it was a sign of the life he led since the war, but he seemed somewhat leaner than he remembered if that was possible. Then again, all that gyrating was probably a good workout.

"You Burke?" A bored looking bouncer leaned in and shouted over the blaring music that pacified the crowd until the next act took the stage. After Peter nodded in the affirmative, he glanced at his clipboard and motioned for him to grab his watered down drink and follow. Peter didn't use his real name out of precaution for both his own job and for the sake of Nathan. It just wouldn't do having a government employee trolling seedy backwoods strip joints, but something in the jaded reaction of the bouncer told him that it was common practice to use a pseudonym and he didn't believe it was his real name for a second. When they passed into the back of the establishment where it was quieter, the burly man looked at his clipboard again and raised his eyebrows. "Whale."

Peter jumped slightly when a half-naked woman brushed passed him to join the other men and women milling around in various stages of undress and he tried not to stare, but a part of him wondered if Sylar was among them. "Excuse me?" He asked pulling his attention to the man who was completely unfazed by his surroundings.

"Whale." The bouncer sighed. "Big spender. We don't get many of your kind down this way." There was something in the nervous man's demeanor that told him he was also probably a newbie to the dark underworld of flesh for hire.

"Oh." Peter nodded. "I'm…" he stammered to think of an explanation of why he would appear out of the blue and drop two grand on a male stripper. It really wasn't his usual thing and he didn't know how to explain his actions.

The bouncer held up his hand to stop him. "I don't care." He flatly announced. "I don't want to know. My job is hard enough as it is."

Peter shoved his hands into his pockets uncomfortably. "I imagine so." Peter wasn't as naïve as everyone assumed he was. When he was a paramedic he responded to more than his fair share of calls for prostitutes that had been attacked by Johns to know that the life Sylar was steeped in was inherently dangerous.

"Here's the rules." He rattled off as though he was brokering a back alley dope deal. "It's your dime, you can pretty much do what you want. But if it involves drawing blood in any way, whipping, piercing, anything like that, you have to check with him. He's expensive because he'll do all kinds of shit nobody else will, but if you're into really kinky experimental stuff cough up another g and he's all yours no questions asked."

Peter tried his best not to look horrified at the implication that he had red hot brands waiting in his hotel room to use on Sylar. He slowly shook his head and mumbled, "No, I think I'm good."

The bouncer nodded knowingly. Either the buyer wasn't going to admit to being into kink or he just didn't want to pay because everyone was a closet freak in his estimation. "You know he's a special, right?"

"That's fine." He shrugged noncommittally. Of course he knew what Sylar was capable of, both good and bad.

"Full disclosure, dude. Some people don't like freaks and others are really into it. Anyway, he knows that whatever you say goes and that includes his powers. He's yours until 6am and you bring him back here. If you want to keep him longer, the rate doubles."

"Got it." He grumbled. Not only was it an uncomfortable situation charged by sexual innuendo, it was barely differentiated from the slave system in his mind. He was essentially buying Sylar to do whatever he dictated from the most sadistic acts to forcing him to clean his fish tank in a French maid costume. It was humiliating and it wasn't right even if Sylar was somehow complicit in his own captivity. It was incomprehensible to him. Hadn't Sylar had enough of other's abusive tendencies? Wasn't this the very thing he fought so hard against and sacrificed for? He looked up sharply when a dark figure casually clad in street clothes strolled up, but when he looked at Sylar only empty, expressionless eyes stared back and it reminded him of the waning days of the war when he was operating on momentum alone and hopelessly resigned to his fate.

"Gabriel, Mr. Burke." The bouncer introduced. "You are now on the clock. Be home by 6, sweetheart."

Peter watched Sylar's face closely for any sign of reaction: anger, relief, anything, but he was unreadable. It seemed that the only thing that remained of Gabriel was his name. In that moment he feared that all of Maria's hopes and dreams were buried with her and he felt as though it was all his fault. He had come too late.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

P.S. The song Sylar is fleecing the crowd to is "Digital Bath" by the Deftones. Give it a listen and tell me you can't see it fitting his twisted brand of sensuality.