Author's Note: This story starts inside Sylar's nightmare, not long before Peter entered his mind.


Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

That sound was Sylar's only friend, the never-ending soundtrack to his life. If you could call this "life," this solitary existence. The repetitive and mocking ticking and tocking of the timepieces, sounding ceaselessly. The hell of the broken ones, making the seconds come too fast or too slow; he kept trying to sync them all up so at least the ersatz music could be slightly less maddening.

Tick. TICK. Tock. TOCK. Tick. Tock. TICK. Tick…

Second hands and gears were his main companions, tormenting his overly sensitive ears. It used to be a gift to hear these seemingly simple yet complex inner workings, to know how to remedy them so easily – the only ability that had ever truly been his own. Now it was nothing more than the monotonous task that kept him going, growing exponentially more tiresome and depressing with each passing day. Where there once was joy in such an undertaking, there remained pleasure no longer. This was now nothing more than a job, and not even a salary to make it worthwhile. Futility. Nothingness.

Growing weary once again, Sylar finally retreated to his chair, trading his tools for words. Books were his only other acquaintances. So many books, and not one he hadn't read by now. But still he'd read them over and over, passing the time in this world in which there was no end. The hard cover in his hands was one he'd read many times, the entrancing nature of The Pillars of the Earth with its fight between good and evil; it'd been absorbing to view the struggle from the good side for a change.

Also there was something so captivating about brother being pinned against brother; his thoughts turned to the Petrellis, always seemingly on opposite sites, and the brief time he thought he belonged to that rivalry… He thought of the one he murdered, and then of the one he found himself up against time and time again. How many times had he had the chance to murder Peter? With Nathan it was so simple, just a simple flick of his finger and Nathan was no more. Well…for all his earthy existence, that is, but Sylar himself had shared a body and mind with him for a while there. At least, with what made Nathan who he was, all while Nathan proper was dead and on ice. And even when the last ounce of him died for good…Sylar still couldn't purge himself of the memories. Sometimes he took comfort in those recollections, while at other times he wished he could cut them out of his head.

Sylar shook his head, having his fill of all things Petrelli. He tried to focus on the book in front of his eyes, but the next words forced him into a whole nother train of thought: "the past was like a story, in which one thing led to another, and the world was not a boundless mystery, but a finite thing that could be comprehended."

His past was one hell of a story, that was for sure, but he could not agree with the latter half of that "realization". There was nothing but mystery in his world, and not one thing finite and comprehendible aside from his own heartbeat and the lack of any other. Just how had this realm come to be? One second he was searching for answers on his "fact-finding mission" and the next…this. In the blink of an eye, seemingly, he was the last one left standing to live out this eternity on his own. He could remember no explosion, no war, no possible reason for everyone else to die. But they had died…hadn't they? There was no other explanation. But what about Claire? She couldn't die, either. Was she wandering around Virginia in this same state of solitary, trying to figure out where her "roommate" Gretchen disappeared to?

Roommate, indeed… He saw the truth when he kissed her, the feelings she refused to acknowledge, the fear standing in her way. Not even the fear of narrow-minded people around her, just her own fear of letting anyone break through her walls. Her feelings had desperately made him want to change before it was too late, to have someone know him and love him for who he was beneath it all…if he could ever be deserving of such a thing. Really, what recompense was there for someone who'd taken as many lives as he had? Who could ever love him? Well…he'd finally found his answer. This was his hell, his punishment…this eternal loneliness.

When this thinking became too much for him, he took to the streets to stretch his legs, fruitlessly scanning for nothing and no one that would ever come. He couldn't remember how long it'd been since he'd called out. The first several months, perhaps the first year, he'd make a habit of shouting to the silence, praying to a God he didn't believe in to let someone, anyone answer his cry.

It had now been close to three years in this living nightmare, and nothing, nobody. There was a time he preferred to be alone, left to his own devices and demons, and now…he would give anything to have someone else to talk to other than the voice inside his head. He was slowly going crazy, of that he was certain. Even though he knew he deserved it…still once in awhile, he engaged in his hopeless search. And tonight he was feeling particularly desperate.

"Hello? HELLO?!" he bellowed, knowing the only response he'd receive was his own echo. A haunting and merciless sound. All alone…forever… Just like Hiro had promised him…but at least in Hiro's estimation, he wouldn't be the last one alive. Having no one to mourn his death was bad enough…but this? This oblivion was so much worse.

He sat on the steps of his apartment building, watching the sky turn hues of purple and orange, unfazed by the sun saying goodbye for another day. He surveyed the light fading and the endless night sky showing with stars, the vast emptiness of space that paralleled his own. He used to love to look at those stars, wondering about that very vastness, but now it was yet another harsh reminder of everything he lacked and everything for which he longed.

Eventually he made the climb to his apartment, closing the door with the bloody handprint – his bloody handprint – and surrendering once again to the silence and the darkness he'd come to know far too well.

Later, lying in his bed, he struggled between staying awake in the abyss and giving into his nightmares. Every night, without fail, nightmares. Funny, he thought, to have nightmares inside a nightmare… Memories of all the bloodshed, the screams of his victims, the pain of the hunger he couldn't control.

His mind had a whole cast of players to run through, and it did just that with no rhyme or reason. Some nights it was a vivid playback of just one murder over and over, while other nights many flashed before him. Never a shortage of grisly acts to replay, even after three years, they still stung deeply. It was like being back in the House of Mirrors, watching his crimes playing at every angle. That had been the first time he'd been able to view his dark deeds from a third person perspective, his consciousness many miles away, taunting Matt Parkman. And since the two halves of him had come back together, he hadn't been the same. And how it came to this…he could never figure out. He wondered if hearing his name in these dreamscapes was the only thing reminding him of his identity, the proverbial horse with no name.

And his name…what exactly was his name anymore? Was he still Sylar? Was he Gabriel again? Sometimes he still felt like Nathan. He was stuck between consciousnesses. He'd damaged himself beyond repair, and Matt Parkman took it just a step further at Angela Petrelli's insistence. All of these questions and memories and conflicting points of view… No one to share them with. No one who would listen even if they were anyone left. To the rest of the world, he would always be Sylar; the depraved murderer who would stop at nothing to gain every last ounce of special he could control. But he'd long since lost control of anything and everything, and he could not begin to decipher who he was any longer.

The first character cast in tonight's nightmare was Brian Davis, appropriately so…the beginning of everything. That hypnotic telekinesis. He wanted it. Needed it. Needed to be special. Needed to be someone. Bludgeoning Brian with the crystal, setting out to fix his broken brain. Not realizing in the process he was breaking himself, forever just a second or two off, searching for the next ability to set him right again. He could not comprehend the voracity the word "need" would take on. But no ability would quench the thirst, no amount of being special could ease the hunger…each new power leaving him even more starving than the one before. A vicious circle of need.

His mind transitioned to the cheerleader who died for no reason, the innocent teenager who pretended to be special, screaming and kicking against the lockers as he threw the girl who couldn't die away. But he'd get what he wanted from her soon enough, splayed out on her own coffee table, prodding her brain to find the key to immortality. Because of her he could never hope for the sweet release and relief of death…and he didn't know until much later what a punishment that would be. He'd murdered her father then begged her to help him make sense of his mixed-up mind, which was full of her father's memories. She helped him to discover that he would need to be become ordinary to ever have a chance at a meaningful life. The journey that would never find its destination…or had reached that destination in the cruelest of ironies: with no one on whom to use his abilities, he was all but rendered a eunuch.

Next he dreamt of Peter… He seemed to dream about Peter more than anyone else. The difference being that not only did he see what had actually happened…he also dreamt about killing him once and for all. The most common illusion was Peter taking Nathan's place on that fateful day in that hotel room, slitting Peter's throat with just the movement of his finger. He'd stand there and watch as the blood drained from his neck, the life fading from his eyes. He'd smile…he'd laugh…he'd mock his greatest nemesis, knowing once and for all he'd won. But underneath the bravado, his stomach would turn and sink, knowing that without Peter…he no longer had an adversary so perfectly matched. Without Peter…the fight would never be as satisfying again. And part of him would mourn the life he'd just taken…and just how big a part was it?

It was on these nights he'd awake with a start, jolted by the images and the mix of feelings. How he wanted Peter dead in those moments…but it hurt him each time to see Peter die. Sometimes he'd even wake with tears in his eyes. Peter was the only one he felt ever might've understood him, stricken - however briefly - with that hunger and all the demons it brought. Peter had told him that in the future he was going to become one of the good guys…but was it possible to be one of the good guys when you were the only one left?