CHAPTER 2: DREAMS

Sweet dreams are made of these

Who am I to disagree?...

… Some of them want to use you

Some of them want to get used by you

Some of them want to abuse you

Some of them want to be abused

Sweet Dreams, by Marilyn Manson

Noah massaged his temple with ample movements of his hand.

His infamous glasses were lying over the coffee table in front of him; the sofa was comfy and warm from the extended time he had been sitting there. The lights of his modest apartment were out in hopes to minimize the approaching headache. It was too late; his cranium was already pulsating loudly.

Lauren had left just minutes ago to check on Samuel, the charismatic former leader of the carnival, and while he was Noah's responsibility now, the company man could not help but feel thankful for the small moment of privacy that his partner had voluntary provided.

Although, maybe today wasn't the best moment to be alone with his thoughts. He just couldn't stop thinking.

Claire had let him down.

He let out a frustrated sigh. Noah had witnessed the foolish mistake of his daughter, the gasps of surprise that followed, and the flashing lights of cameras. He didn´t want to know the rest, so he had left. No need to see more when he knew what would follow. It was extremely naive to think that the world would forever see with wonder and approval the miracle that was his daughter. He knew it well, the years he had spent inside the company had taught him well - years of working closely with the worst of humanity and witnessing the most heinous acts; many of which had been executed by his own hands.

It all had left him with a bitter realization.

The world was corrupted; all of it. Even his precious Claire. However good her intentions may have been, in the core of it, she had just been selfish; driven by her own desire to be accepted and belong, not putting into account the repercussions it would bring to others and to herself in a future not so far away.

She was selfish, reckless and corruptible; just like everyone else. His Claire-bear.

Sure in the beginning many would look with wonder, admiration perhaps, but given time, people would start to frown and stare, envious and poisonous eyes trained on his daughter. His small girl - no, I can't call her that anymore, he inwardly corrected himself - would be the target of all the hatred.

Claire had started a revolution – whether it was now or a few years down-line - and he wasn't sure if she was aware of it or if he could forgive her for throwing herself head first without thinking about it. Disappointment was rooted deep in his chest.

He groaned; there would sure be time to think about the future. For now he had to keep going, making sure that everything fell into place like he had always done, even when he was dead tired.

His cell phone rang. He picked it up; the caller ID informing him it was Lauren.

"Hello?"

"Noah, oh thank God you answered! I have bad news; Samuel is gone."

He rubbed his eyes in anger. "Of course he is… I'll be there in 10 minutes." Noah hung up and pocketed his cell phone. Stretching out his hand, he took his glasses from the table. "No rest for the company man," he muttered in the darkness of his apartment, wearing his horn rimmed glasses again.

Sylar left the dream's world at the sound of voices nearby.

He lazily opened his eyes, the morning rays piercing through the window of his trailer to paint lights and shadows on every surface. He stretched out his clamped muscles. It is strange to dream again, he mused. In the nightmare-world that Matt had created, sleep was something unattainable; non-existent.

Dreams are, to a certain extent, a way for the brain to assimilate events, deal with the stimuli gathered during waking hours; in other words, a way to process data. But when you relive the same day over and over without any change, dreams become vestigial, useless, worthless. That's why he supposed he stopped doing it and as the years passed by, he stopped caring too. Now back in the real world, dreams along with other sensory sensations were a novelty; and sometimes a thing worth being remembered the next morning.

The redeemed murderer buttoned his shirt. Last night, after the return of Hiro with a smiling Emma in tow, the carnival magically came back with life, startling him. Of course he knew better than to think about magic. Apparently one of the carnies had the ability to link the components of the carnival-games, trailers, stands – and with the people who inhabited them, creating a connection of sorts between them.

Thus, when the last of the specials were relocated, it all simply returned to its usual joyful tune of activity. Sylar had been mesmerized by the demonstration of power, beginning to wonder which of the carnies held such intriguing gifts, when he decided it was time to stop before his thoughts could take a darker path. I'm no longer that man, he reminded himself. There were people counting on it, too; counting on him.

He smiled at the realization. There are people on his side now. Or to put it correctly, he was on the side of these people. Sure, he would be watched at first, but who could blame them? Sylar would have done the same if he would have been in a similar situation; hell, he probably wouldn't have trusted them at all. But they do and it was more than what he had been granted in life - a second chance - and he had no intentions of letting it go to waste.

During his treacherous existence, he had sought acceptance with the wrong people; first from his ill-infantile mother by trying to be the "Special boy" that she wanted so badly, then with the beautiful-but-lacking-in-boundaries Elle, who only saw him as a partner in crime, and then to Angela, who had seen him as a weapon to mold at her liking. Every one of those times ended with blood and a broken heart. All these people had played with his vulnerability, his need to be important in the eyes of others, using him in their ulterior motives.

He had been deliberately manipulated.

The pain he felt at the aftermath was the same he tried to inflict on others, on innocent people. The same innocent people who are now sharing the same roof, so to speak. A wave of guilt rolled in his chest, one that seemed to have lately taken permanent residence there. Sylar grasped the edge of his temporal bead, ebbing the foul sensation away.

Angry murmurs reached his ears and he stiffened. He couldn´t help himself as he got up and went for the window to inspect; after all, the need to know was intrinsically encoded in his DNA. He squinted his eyes. From this angle, he couldn't see much but one of the voices was unmistakable. Her screams would echo inside him forever.

Claire Bennet.

She was fervently talking with a man, whose back was towards him, his broad shoulders stiff with tension. The reformed murderer changed his position at the window, trying to get a better look of the whole exchange and… there it was. Ironically, the other person had been in his head too - or was that the other way around? - although for entirely different reasons.

The police officer, Matt Parkman.

"Claire-Look I know you were tired of living in the shadows but now you have put all of us in danger!"

Yeah, definitely irritable, oversized Parkman, Sylar thought, amused.

"As if I could be the one to put all of you in danger! Me! It was only me who jumped!"

Oh, the cheerleader is fuming; better cover your eyes Matty, he shuddered, remembering how bad it had hurt when she stuck that freaking pencil in his eye. Although, if he recalled the memory correctly, it had totally worth it considering where he was right now.

"Yes, but they will soon start to dig and it will led them to us! I´m a cop, Claire, I know what I mean."

And not a very good one, Sylar thought, remembering his misadventures with the mind reader.

"Okay, you might be right, but that doesn't mean they will start hunting us."

"Claire, have you lost your mind?" He was yelling now as he forcibly took hold of her shoulder. "Perhaps you forgot what happened? The plane, Building 26, Danko! Remember?" He was shaking angrily with every word.

Something stirred in his heart. Okay, time out. Sylar stepped out of his hiding place. Claire was the first one to see him as Matt had his back to him. She froze in place; his dark eyes were full of mischief.

"Parkman," It was intended as a warning but came out more like a growl. Matt turned, releasing his hold on the girl.

"Great, it's you again!"

"It´s good to know that you are glad to see me too, but I´d would appreciate if you stop yelling in Claire's face. I bet she's not as used to your bad breath as I am."

Matt turned red with anger while Claire stared, open-mouthed. She couldn't believe it. Peter had spoken to her about the 'nightmare' they had shared together - five years locked in the psychopath's mind, every day hammering at a wall that held freedom behind it. He told her about how in those years, they became reluctant friends. It was like the closet all over again for Claire. The Sylar who wasn´t exactly the Sylar she had known. She refused to believe it; she told herself not to believe. But now seeing Sylar-the-poking-brains-monster defending her against the well-intentioned police officer was mind blowing.

Where the hell am I? Bizarro world? She thought.

She must have spoken aloud because Matt heard her and looked at her. "Claire I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn´t mean to scare you. It's just… we are all under great pressure and I just got carried away," he stammered, "but you need to understand that we truly are in great danger."

"Not necessarily," Sylar calmly said, forcing them to acknowledge him again.

"What do you mean?" Matt warily asked.

"Well, Building 26 was an institution that operated in secret, hidden from the innocent citizens."

Claire realized then that Sylar had been hearing their previous conversation. Probably waiting for the right moment to make a dramatic entrance. Bastard. The idea that it was all a calculated move from him made her hate him more.

"What are you exactly trying to say?" Matt asked annoyed. Unfinished sentences and cryptic messages were not his style; he always went to the point. But like it was prone to be whenever Sylar was involved, everything was complicated.

"The public opinion," Claire prompted, going back to the subject at hand.

"Exactly," Sylar answered, giving her his full attention. He smirked. Claire always seemed to be thinking in the same way that he thought. Souls cut from the same knife indeed.

"The only difference is that now there is no secret, thanks to Claire, everyone knows of our existence, giving us the opportunity to defend our case in the public eye."

"And how do you know if they're not, I don't know, going to turn against us?" Matt asked suspiciously.

"Well, to be honest, I don´t know."

"Great." The mind reader rolled his eyes. Claire stared at Sylar closely. Where is he going with this?

"But we do have an advantage in our favor. All they saw was a woman who jumped into the void and miraculously healed her wounds. Claire's power is purely defensive; there is nothing that screams danger in her, no offense," he leered at her.

And yet I'm probably the only one who came close to killing you twice, she thought, amused, but didn't voice her thoughts.

"So what you are saying is that we show to the public only the less dangerous parts of our abilities?" Matt asked.

"That, and for Claire to become the official spokesperson for people with abilities."

"What?"

The two of them spat in unison; Sylar merely signed. Did he always have to explain everything for them? "It's the most logical thing to do. People have seen her power is harmless and let's admit it, she has some appeal for the cameras," he carefully monitored his voice as if explaining something to a couple of five-year-old's.

Claire dropped her gaze in revulsion. She didn´t want for the murderer to find her attractive in any way; besides, he had seen and heard how she had babbled when the questions started to come after her jump. She wasn´t cut out for that kind of job.

Sylar perceived Claire's uneasiness right away. "But if you feel that you can't do it, that's fine, we can always look out for someone with more experience in dealing with people…" He let play an innocent smile over his unshaven face.

Claire took the hint. "No, I got everyone in this mess and now it's my responsibility," she stubbornly said, green eyes shining with intensity. Her doubts were thrown back to the bottom of her mind now. God forgive us if he wants to shape shift into me so he could deal with people himself. She shuddered.

That's my cheerleader, always willing to antagonize me, Sylar thought as his eyes locked onto her eternal youthful face. He knew that if he used the right words, Claire would accept. She always wanted to prove herself around him.

"Okay, so if we do this then we need to plan it out beforehand. Where is Peter? He called me here but I haven't seen him since I came."

The two immortals seemed to break out of their reveries at the sound of Matt's voice. Claire blinked several times and looked away.

"I don't know, Parkman; I just woke up." Sylar suddenly stated, annoyed at the presence of the other man.

"He went to see Angela, said he needed to talk to her." Claire answered, massaging her brow.

"Well, then what we do?"

"Now we wait," Sylar replied with false joy.

"I´m going to see Emma," Claire murmured and left.

Matt nodded his head and went to Sylar's trailer.

Probably looking for something to eat, Sylar thought with a smirk. He didn't move from his spot, bathing himself in the early morning rays of sunshine and watching Claire get away; getting away from him, just like she had done the previous night. One little girl approached the blonde, tugging at her sleeve and surprising her with a hug. Claire stiffened but smiled nonetheless as she recognized the little girl, maybe from an old trip to the carnival. Claire's smile could only be described with one word: beautiful.

He had never seen her like that, so honestly and openly giving away what little she could offer; probably because she had never smiled like that in his presence. Perhaps in one of Nathan's memories, he mused. The recollections of the late politician mixed with his own of Claire covered in blood were enough for him to drop his eyes.

For some reason, Claire's forgiveness held a significant importance to him. Maybe it was due to the fact that Claire had been the most affected by his crimes or perhaps it was because, like him, she was going to live forever and it would be inconvenient to watch his back that long of a time, expecting violence at any corner. Or maybe it was all that and more. He didn't know for sure, his feelings and memories were in a gutter, mixed and blurred together. What he did know is that if one day she could forgive him, a grand part of the guilt would vanish. The only problem was, she was Claire.

The most stubborn person in the world.

He sighed. It wasn't going to be easy. He would have to do something: concede, call a truce, give in a little and start doing some nice things. Hiro had warned him; the hero path was not an easy one.

Inside of the trailer, he heard the noise of a falling pan.

'Shit, Parkman stop stealing my food,' he thought, annoyed, and sure that the cop inside had heard him.

Angela ran a hand through her disheveled hair. The soft fabric of her robe was enveloping her as she looked over the balcony of her room. The morning air was cold and she secured her robe more closely.

The courtyard of the Petrelli's mansion was one of the most admired in all New York. Thick grass - exclusively brought in from Brazil - contrasted harmoniously with the marble statues that decorated the edges of the paved road leading to the font; the focal center of the landscape. Around it, roses perched proudly, making the scenery grow in its extravagance and pomposity. Roses had always been her weakness.

She let out a weary sigh. After seeing Claire little televised stunt, her night had mutated from calm to being a living hell. Nightmares plagued her subconscious; nightmares with blood, tears and cries, mixed with flashes of holdings hands, blinding lights and falling walls, all enveloped in a glowering orange light. Her dreams were never clear enough, always open to interpretation. But these were especially confusing, being convoluted in every scene. Even so, Angela had been able to discern three particular events that seemed to repeat itself on a constant pattern. Destiny is a rabid beast, she mused. The Petrelli matriarch was scared and not for the first time she cursed herself; she cursed her ability. A war was on the horizon.

"Nice view you have from here."

She turned around as a male figure materialized in front of her eyes. "Claude," she murmured with controlled calm, her face as hard as one of the statues she had been admiring before.

"I see you have not changed anything. Even in hard times you still seem to be made of iron, don't you?" Claude was in full mockery mood, it seemed.

"And I see you still enjoy entering people's houses without permission."

He shrugged one shoulder and placed his hands in the pockets of his large - albeit scruffy-looking - coat.

"Well, I figured I wouldn't need permission to visit the house of an old friend."

Angela remained silent for a moment. "What do you want, Claude?" She finally asked, cutting to the point. She was tired, dead tired, and it was starting to show in her face. But she knew that Claude wouldn't leave his hiding place unless under absolutely necessary circumstances. The man changed his stance a little and stared curiously at the woman before him. Angela was letting her emotions slip away from her mask.

"I want to know what lies ahead."

Angela hesitated for a moment; she was conflicted about what she had to do; it was a turning point, but only the first of many more to come. "We will need your help, Claude." She chose her words carefully."You always knew this day would come."

A shiver ran down through Claude at these words. It was something he had dreaded, he had feared, to hear when he decided to come here.

A knock at the door interrupted them; Peter's voice rang though it.

"Mom, can I talk with you a sec?"

Angela looked at Claude and he instantly vanished from sight at the silent request. "Of course," she said calmly.

Peter opened the door and approached his mother. "Morning. I hope that I didn't wake you." He noticed that his mother was still in a bathrobe, and felt a little guilty. He coyly smiled.

The corners of Angela's mouth upturned for the first time that day. "No, you didn´t, but I'm guessing you must already know that I didn't have the best of nights." She hugged her son in a warm embrace and caressed her stubble face for a second. Choosing to gaze out the windows and down to her gardens instead of stare at her son, she turned away.

"So I guess you already know what happened and your bad night of sleep is because of that?

Angela just nodded.

"And I assume your bad mood is because the dreams were not very nice?" Peter hesitantly voiced his thought out loud.

She turned around, staring straight at Peter's eyes, reaching for his hand gently.

"There's a war on the horizon, Peter; all of us must be strong to face whatever comes." Her tone a dark contrast compared with her maternal gesture.

Despite the sour words of his mother, Peter stared ahead. He refused to accept whatever was coming with open arms. He had always been an optimist of heart and even if his mother's words held great power behind it, he knew he wouldn't be here if he had listened to her every time. "The future is not written in stone."

Angela's heart broke a little, hearing those words again but from Peter's lips this time. "You know that my dreams are never wrong; believe me when I say that a war is inevitable. The only thing we can change is our odds at winning it. That's why you must prepare yourself and the others for what it is to come." She gave him a squeeze.

Losing his patient, Peter dropped her hands from his. "There's always something we can do!" He interjected, pacing down the length of the room. "This is not inevitable; I refuse to believe it, We have very powerful people on our side: Hiro, the carnival's people, shit! Even Sylar said he would help!"

"And that's a good thing, Peter. We can't afford to walk different paths now; we need to stick together." Angela's face softened.

"I'm going to show you that it can be changed!" Peter angrily spat and left the room.

Angela stared brokenly at the place her son had previously vacated.

"I've done all sorts of things in my life, Claude," she spoke out loud, knowing she still have another person close with her. "And I have always done them without looking back, because in the end they were the right things to do." Her voice broke a little. "But the most difficult of these things was always letting go of my child." Claude materialized again and Angela gazed at him. "I hope you understand that."

Claude scowled. "I spent the last seventeen years hiding him from people like you; why do you think that should change now?"

"It's not the woman of the company who is ordering for you to do it, it is the mother in me that is asking you." She let out a long sigh, despair written all over her features. "They can't do it alone and you know it," she tried to reason again.

Claude's stare was locked on Angela tired face. The woman seemed to have instantly aged years in the span of seconds. He glanced in the direction Peter had gone. "I will go talk to him."

Angela let out a sigh of relief. "Michael is a good boy; he's going to help save the world."

Claude laughed humorlessly and left the room with a final bow.

TO BE CONTINUED…

A/N: Claude was one of my favourite characters in season 1.

Comments are welcome!