Chapter Two

Chapter Two

"Stranger Danger"

In all two-hundred and thirty-eight days that Gabriel Monroe had lived in San Francisco, he hadn't once met someone he'd soon call a 'friend.' But on that ordinary Wednesday afternoon, after two months of monotonous shrink visits, his encounter with the enigmatic Orson Huxley changed the name of the game.

Orson had a way about him that lured Sylar in, right from the first time they made contact. Whether it was his mischievously sharp eyes or boyish little smile, or perhaps the nice black and white suit he wore like sweats and a t-shirt, his appeal still remained a mystery. Nevertheless, Sylar found his shrink visits getting more and more enjoyable with this newcomer to talk to in the lobby every single week.

"Did you hear about the famine in Havana?" Orson's cerulean eyes practically shined with excitement. "It's not exactly front page news, I know, but I did a story on it last week for The Bay."

Sylar frowned, interested. "I'm afraid you'll have to humor me. Cuba is being bombarded by locusts. Is that somehow significant?"

Orson arched a thin eyebrow. "Indeed, friend. The impact on the economy and morale is very noticeable, even if it's subtle. I suspect a layer of fear among everyone. A 'could this happen to me?' question that throbs in their minds, all over the world."

"The minds that actually read your article, that is."

The gaunt journalist leaned back casually in his chair, black locks falling a bit into his face. "Of course," he replied smoothly, but his bright eyes narrowed a bit. Then, a couple seconds later, he was grinning madly like before and leaning closer to Sylar. Things were amicable as fast as they were sardonic. Sylar loved it, the spontaneity. It was new, it was fresh. It was like an IV had been shoved into his vein and pumped full of a prototype oxygen. Orson was smart and wild and witty and it was unlike anything the amnesiac had ever experienced.

Though Sylar couldn't help but that think, with a heavy heart, that what fascinated him so much about his new friend was that Orson resembled a mish-mash of Peter and himself into one person. Peter's good looks, sharp tongue, short temperament; Sylar's intelligence, inquisitiveness, and eccentricies.

"It really is awful though," Orson nodded seriously. "They expect the whole economy to slide. Every crop ruined."

"Terrible," Sylar muttered. "Reminds me of that drought a couple years ago in Kansas. Remember that?"

"How could I forget? My friend covered the whole story."

Orson the journalist and Sylar the history buff often had discussions comparing the past and current events. Oh, they'd already covered the war in Iraq and Vietnam…Napoleon and Caesar…the classics, naturally. But as Orson and Sylar's conversations grew more and more deep, their topics raised in obscurity and controversy.

"I've been meaning to ask you about your opinions on Sears Tower raid, but I keep forgetting," Orson abruptly blurted out, looking even more hyper and enthusiastic than usual.

Jesus Christ, this man could read Sylar like a book. That topic was one that Sylar had been just brimming to rant about. But before he could even utter a single word, Dr. Knox's secretary emerged from the office with her polished high heels and tiny little clipboard.

"Gabriel Monroe?"

Sylar sighed, disappointed. "That would be me," he grumbled. He turned to Orson with genuine sympathy. "Hold that thought, will you? We can talk about it next week, I guess."

"Nonsense," bristled Orson. "You, me, lunch. Today. After our appointments. I'll treat you to any place in town, and we can continue our little discussion before the appetizers even come."

Sylar grinned. "Have it your way, then. Robert's Deli at two o'clock. And don't make me wait."

xxx

Robert's Deli was Sylar's favorite joint, mostly because of their good corned beef and clusters of eclectic customers. And as Orson had already greatly expressed his love of a tasty Reuben to Sylar in an earlier conversation (which began with a debate about the Trojan war and somehow ended with hoagies), Gabriel found it as fit as any other place to take his new friend.

Indeed, Orson was not disappointed. Sylar could almost see stars in the journalist's striking eyes as he bit into a double-decker beef and cheese on rye. Orson wiped his mouth daintily and set the sandwich down, peering at Sylar admirably.

"You might be a lot of things, comrade, but this is proof that you're no liar. Delicious."

Sylar smiled. "My idiosyncrasies annoy Niki, but she does give me credit for two things- my tastes in literature and food."

"Your taste in history seems laudable of credit too."

Sylar shrugged. "It depends on what you like. I've seen some of the homework they give Micah and it's no surprise kids are bored with school these days. They leave all the good facts out."

Orson smiled. "Like how Alexander the Great was a cross-dressing bisexual?"

"Right. See, no teenager would ever forget something like that."

"And naturally, no one can deny how fascinating Nero was."

Sylar leaned forward in strong agreement. "Exactly! He was a complete nutcase, but that's what makes him interesting. Though I do believe Caligula was worse…"

"The movie Caligula or the man?" Orson chuckled.

Sylar snorted with a glaze of a sour grimace, remembering the 1980 Malcolm McDowell flick that he accidentally checked out from the library a few months ago. From the back cover, it sounded like a perfectly civilized and well-made historical movie, when, in actuality, it was two hours of fetish porn.

"Both," he weakly answered. Orson's eyes widened a bit and he looked Sylar up and down, clearly wondering how the library assistant could have gotten muddled in such murky waters.

"It's a…long story," Sylar coughed out, tugging at his collar to give his throat more breathing room. Orson said nothing, but the curve of his lips and dazzle in his eyes spoke more sarcasm than Sylar could even hope to muster in words.

"So while we're on the subject of crazy brunette men," Orson said with a languorous smoothness that no one else couldn't imitate. He left that last word hanging on the edge for a second before continuing with, "What are you doing in Knox's lair?"

There was a blunt, uncomfortable shift in the mood of their conversation and a couple strangled noises from Sylar's throat before he gathered a reply in his head.

"Grief therapy," Sylar finally admitted. "My brother and his girlfriend were both very close to me, but I lost them last April when…"

Orson's eyes were even bigger and glassier than usual, as if opening them wide could allow him to see right into Sylar's soul. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," he said wistfully.

Sylar glanced up and met him directly in the eyes, Sylar's dry orbs gaining energy off Orson's sparkling pair. "It's fine. They, uh…they died in a fire."

"How terrible," Orson whispered. "That is one of the more painful ways to die."

Had Peter and Claire actually died in a fire, Sylar might have noticed Orson's lack of tact. But Sylar knew that the way his friends truly were lost was much more painful than any burning house and thus was oblivious to Orson's rather impolite observation.

"It's kind of odd though," Sylar continued, gaze locked once again on the table. He traced the tiles with one finger, trying to make sense of the endless pattern as his story rambled on. "When I first moved here, right after the funeral, I was well off and happy. I have a girlfriend, and she has a wonderful son, and I loved the city. I loved having a new life and it made me forget about them for a while."

"You could get used to a new routine without them so it didn't feel like anything was missing. At first." Orson said it as a statement, not a question, and the preciseness of it made Sylar stare upon him with even more newfound respect.

"Yes." Sylar sniffed slightly and collected his thoughts, but decided against speaking any of them aloud. Orson understood. Orson always understood, even if Sylar didn't say exactly what he meant. Though sometimes, Orson pulsed with an almost creepy amount of intuition, so much that Sylar often wondered if his friend could read his mind.

But that was probably unlikely. Orson was not a man full of secrets, though he liked to pretend so. Sylar was sure that if Orson was a mutant, he would have been one of the first to be bar-coded. And seeing as the blue-eyed journalist's wrists remained pale and devoid of ink, Sylar felt secure.

So the deepest truth, one he wouldn't even tell Niki, was that yes, the routine had grown old. The new life wasn't new anymore, and that gave Sylar too much time to wallow in his leftover grief. Reading Peter's journals only made things worse in the end. The more Sylar reflected on his old life, the more he wanted to be out there again, saving the world with his brother and Claire.

He never really realized how much he loved Peter and the spy life until his twin died. Now it was too late.

"Alright," Orson abruptly said, shimmying his shoulders to shake off invisible dust. "You showed me yours, so I'll show you mine. Ask me anything."

"Anything?" Sylar laced his fingers absently. "I'll start with the obvious, then. Why are you seeing Knox?"

Orson sighed like a beachgoer on an overcast day. "An everyday case of schizophrenia. Voices yelling at me and all. It's quite," he leered playfully, "maddening."

Unusually, Sylar didn't laugh at the pun, but Orson still looked unabashed. He continued, as if the awkward silence between them never existed.

"In all seriousness though, this illness has…robbed me of my innocence," Orson grimly said. "But I want to recover and recount for the sins of my past. I don't like having my head out of control."

For the first time, his normally electric eyes lost their sparkle and a few wrinkles creased his youthful face. Though Sylar had looked at his friend as though he walked on water, it was in that moment that he realized how alike he and Orson actually were. Even with all Orson's charm, he was just another person out there trying to survive.

Sylar smiled in spite of himself, letting his inhibitions go for a minute. "I know how that feels. My slate isn't exactly blank either."

Orson's left brow arched wildly, bent like a thin boomerang over a fiercely penetrating blue eye. "Oy? Scared away all your friends too?"

A darker side of Sylar, one that hardly ever showed, began to rear its head. "Much worse, Orson. So bad I don't even remember it. It's was years ago though. I was young and…I'm still not sure what happened, or why. I just know that I'm capable of something that's terrible and it scares me all the time."

"Having great power is terrifying," Orson nodded solemnly, and his words brought Sylar back down to cruel reality.

"Power?" he frowned. "No, I…I don't think I ever said anything about…powers."

Orson immediately backtracked, waving a slender hand in nonchalance. "Of course not, comrade, of course not. Entirely not what I meant. I simply implied that those with mental illness seem lack a cricket on their shoulder, eh? These types like us, who were at one point fearless and without conscience, are far more intimidating and capable of crime than those who couldn't bear to harm another person. Understandable?"

"Er…sure." Sylar's head hurt as he tried to process Orson's usual long-winded and upside-down explanation. It was like trying to learn how to change oil in a car from a manual written in Pig Latin. Though Sylar regularly was at the same plane as Orson, he was getting weary today and losing focus on his friend's garbled speak.

"You know," he began carefully, "I'm sorry, I've kind of got a headache. I think I'm gonna pick up my paycheck and head on home."

Orson reached across the table and patted Sylar on the wrist, allowing Sylar to feel the chill of his fingers.

"No problem, friend. I suppose I'll see you next week?"

Sylar dithered, nodding vaguely as he stood up. "I don't see why not. Have a good day, Orson."

He threw a couple bills on the table to tip the waiter with, and gave Orson's bony shoulder a small squeeze of goodbye on the way out.

"You never know, Sylar," Orson grinned toothily. "You might just see me again sooner than you think!"

xxx

The hall of genealogy at San Francisco's downtown library was more like a den of knick-knacks than a sanctuary of the ages. Sylar's tiny desk was shoved between a couple towering wooden shelves, constantly immersing the room in sepia shadows and dust. It wasn't much of a dream job, but it was a far cry better than shelving books in the main room, a task that always left Sylar's fingers raw.

Luckily, he wasn't in here for work today; just to pick up his paycheck, which rested rather unguardedly on his desk. Sylar frowned. The head librarian and his boss, Riley, was a slightly scatterbrained and eccentric man. Likeable, and full of genius quirks, but rather annoyingly idealistic and overly trustworthy when it came to things like money. God only knew the number of books the library had lost on Riley's "honor system."

Sylar deftly pocketed the white envelope which contained his salary, and then squeezed his way through to the other side of the desk, fighting not to knock over a particularly soaring stack of papers. Once he was through to the cramped backside, he pulled open the center drawer and withdrew a blank manila folder, which was slightly thick but not stuffed.

Though this little operation was kept slightly secret from his co-workers, Sylar was proud to admit that the contents of the beige folder was no mystery from Niki. One less secret kept from her, the better. In fact, everything contained inside was actually her (and Peter's) idea in the first place.

He pinched open the clasp and undid the top of his large envelope, taking a peek into the folder's dark abyss. Everything was in there, as expected. So with a feeling of security, Sylar closed the manila folder back up and slid it silently into his messenger bag.

The truth was, while Sylar helped other people hunt down their ancestors, he was also trying to find his own. What better setting to look for Emily Freis-Monroe's records than his own workplace? After weeks of digging, when he wasn't labeling or helping a lost customer, he had found a wealth of information. Not just on Emily herself, but on several others that Sylar's path had been led to. It was like doing research on a field of dominos: knock one over and a whole set reacts, practically shoving information towards him.

In the manila folder was all of the research he had collected thus far. And, not having the proper time to pour over it at the library, he was finally deciding to take it home and look for answers in a more domestic setting. Though Sylar's job, and his boss, were both the opposite of stressful, he couldn't help but feel slightly trapped and claustrophobic in this dusty, lonely hall of lost and unkept records.

Just as Sylar closed the drawer, wiggled his way to the other side of the desk, and was heading towards the door, his phone vibrated violently in his pocket. And to be blunt, it scared the hell out of him.

Sylar jumped, nearly hitting one of the swaying, fragile shelves in the A-I section. He gritted his teeth and dug a hand into his pocket, slowly removing the trembling phone and thumbing a finger over the green "Talk" button.

"Hello?" he mumbled, uncomfortable with the loudness of his own voice. Only then did he realize that he hadn't even bothered to look at the caller ID, and he crossed his fingers that this wasn't another telemarketer.

"Hey sweetie," cooed a calm female voice from the other line. Sylar relaxed, abandoning his worry. It was merely Niki.

"Ah, hi. What's going on?"

"Nothing much. Are you okay?" There was a small beat of concern in her tone. "You sound really out of breath."

Sylar blushed, and was glad that his girlfriend couldn't see him. "My phone just, um…surprised me."

"It scared you again?"

"Surprised me."

Niki giggled but didn't push it, making way for the real reason she called. "Fine, I'll take your word for it. But really, where are you right now?"

"At the library. Just picking up my pay."

He could sense her nodding. "Cool. That little Chinese place is near there, right? By Howard and 5th?"

Sylar rubbed his temples, tiredly recalling his mental map of San Francisco. "I think. You want me to pick something up?"

"Yeah, that'd be great. It's not too much trouble, is it?"

"No, it's on the way," Sylar responded. Though the words came out wearily, they were true. "Sesame chicken, right?" he confirmed.

"Mmm-hmm." There was a moment of hesitation between them, neither one sure of what to say. Niki ended up breaking the awkwardness.

"So I'll see you in about a half hour?"

Sylar nodded for the benefit of nothing except for the motion itself. "Yes, if the traffic is good."

"Okay…see you then…"

"Right. Bye?" Sylar chewed his lip to fight away the nervous twitching in his gut. This was perfect timing, and it wouldn't take much to just let out those three little words…

"…bye"

He waited too long. Just for a split second, but that was still enough to separate the "I love you" on his lips from the dial tone in his ear. Sylar sighed dejectedly and tossed the phone into his messenger bag, along with all the other files and junk that he kept in there.

As he strolled out of the library looking like a droopy-eyed lost dog, he could almost imagine Peter up in heaven, watching over him. Because somewhere, Gabriel was sure, Peter was groaning and smacking his forehead with his own palm, wondering if Sylar would ever inherit his moxy.

xxx

To be continued…