Author shenanigans: Oh Em Gee! Thank you guys so much for reviews, alerts, favorites, etc. I'm sooo excited =] I'm suddenly bubbling with ideas for this story, and I can't wait to get to writing and see what you guys have to say. And by the way, the earth may be standing still because I am posting the third chapter within a WEEK of posting the first! Holy crap. Seriously. I NEVER do that. It's thanks to your guys' reviews!

Okay, but honestly, I don't like the last half of this chapter very much because I was really just trying to get the story moving along. And I don't know if the entire thing is too long, short, thin, fat and so on, so I'd like to hear back from anyone on that front as this chapter is significantly longer than the others. Also let me know about characterization, as I feel as though I fell off of it already.

Okay...that's it!


Chapter 3. Decision


"You did not seriously make the boy pick and eat his own boogers in front of his girlfriend, did you?"

"I did."

Laughter among the table.

"Why would you do something like that?"

Doyle shrugged good-naturedly.

"He was a punk; the girl deserved better," he answered with a shrug. "I just thought I wouldn't postpone their breakup."

"Genius!"

"Oh my goodness…"

"Really, Eric?"

"Claire, could you pass the syrup?"

…She didn't respond for a moment, her eyes lost in the sea of scrambled eggs on her plate.

"Claire? Claiiiirrreee?"

Doyle tapped her arm, and she finally glanced up to see that every pair of eyes at the long dining table was suddenly on her. She gulped, wondering what she'd missed or if she had accidentally generated a third arm, until Samuel's request filtered through her mind.

"Oh…oh!" Claire shook her head, laughing nervously as she reached forward and grabbed the bottle of syrup, passing it in Samuel's direction along the line of fellow carnies. It took a moment, but most returned to the general, heartwarming, family conversations at Doyle's prompt while Samuel's dark eyes lingered over Claire. She attempted to give a reassuring smile, and he grinned kindly in return before receiving his syrup and attending to his pancakes.

Claire released a heavy sigh, picking up her fork to pick absentmindedly at her food.


"Penny for your thoughts?"

The sound of Samuel's gravelly voice startled Claire out of her reverie as much as it tensed her body for battle. She was gripping the yellow cushion seat of the Ferris wheel box for several seconds before she consoled her adrenaline and uncurled her fists, smiling halfheartedly at the man.

He narrowed his eyes at her, glancing around the empty carnival grounds. It was a Sunday; no carnival games today, only a day of rest and respite. However, the point he was trying to make became evident as he added, "No one's around but me, Claire. You don't have to put up a grin, no matter how pretty it is."

Her face fell flat, mostly with relief. "Thank you," she replied, shoulders slumped and tired.

He cocked his head to the side in curiosity. "Mind if I join you?"

Claire looked to him and shook her head. "Your carnival."

He chuckled, taking a seat next to her in the box making it rock slightly. He stretched his arms over the back as if it were the most relaxing moment of his day, and he released a long breath, reveling in the rare ghost town of a carnival ground.

"I've notice you like to come sit here and think," he commented quietly.

She nodded. "Yeah." Her thumbs twiddled without thought. "I never really liked Ferris wheels as a kid but…" She tilted her head back, observing the blue sky between all the white metal work and darkened lights. "I don't know…When it's not moving, it's…"

"Peaceful," he filled in, nodding in understanding.

"Yeah," she agreed.

Another pleasant silence enveloped them; they could hear birds chirping in the nearby woods as noon drew closer and closer.

Claire turned her body towards Samuel as a question brewed on her lips. "Samuel…did you…" She paused. "Do you have anything…or anyone…outside the carnival?" Her eyes fell to the ground. "What I mean is…isn't there anything that you wanted that you couldn't get here?"

He didn't reply for several minutes, and Claire returned to meet his steady gaze on her face. She felt like those dark eyes could burn you—put a hole right through your head—if you stared long enough. It was intimidating but at the same time admirable…respectable. It reminded her of Noah.

"We all have things we wanted outside of here, Claire," he explained steadily, never blinking. "We had things we pursued, things we failed, people we loved…" Samuel surprised her by chortling hollowly as a thought occurred to him. He leaned in as though he was going to tell her a secret, so she, too, leaned forward. "The problem is, Claire, the things we want…don't want us back."

She nodded. "Thus Cirque de Freaks."

Samuel grinned, reclining back once more to utter a laugh. "Yes, that's the idea."

He watched her as she took this in, mulling slowly over the information. He had her so close to deciding, so close to picking his side. He was reeling her in. Closer and yet…

Claire sighed, scratching absently at her nose as she rested her head in her hands, elbows on her knees.

"Isn't there a way?"

He arched an eyebrow, feigning confusion.

"A way for what?"

Her brow creased as a sudden wave of melancholy crashed over her body. "A way for us to just be okay out there…" She sat up, gesturing with her hands to the 'out there.' "There's got to be a way for them to accept us." Her nostrils burned as tears built in the corners of her eyes.

Samuel frowned, scooting in and pulling Claire into a warm, fatherly hug that she openly returned, a few tears spilling over the edge. He cooed to her softly, whispering things that she didn't understand. She mused on how strange it was that when this man first showed up, she didn't even think to trust him. Who would have thought she'd be sitting on a Ferris wheel, crying into his shoulder because of the very thing she'd been afraid of trusting all along?

Her ability. Her uniqueness.

Herself.

After a few deep, steadying breaths, Claire was calm once more, but she remained snuggled into Samuel's shoulder while he gently stroked her hair, just like Noah used to when she was little.

"Claire, they won't accept what we are," he murmured, staring blankly at the colorful tents before them. "They can't understand what they haven't felt or done." He sighed. "We aren't safe among them…and they aren't safe among us."

Claire clamped her eyes shut as the image of Sylar's smirking face flashed through her mind.

This went unnoted, though, as Samuel continued, his voice taking on a strange tone Claire hadn't heard.

"One day, though…" he claimed. "One day, we'll be free to walk the world as we please, unafraid of one another, all loved or in love. No pain, no power. Just…us."

Claire smiled.

"That sounds wonderful."

Samuel grinned. He had caught her. Finally.

"So, if you think you might be staying a while, what do you say we find you an act?"

"…"

"…Claire?"

She sniffled, happy.

"I'd love that."


Peter and Emma had never been on a date. Never held hands. Never even really looked at each other that way yet.

And, still, somehow Peter found himself pressing Emma up against her apartment wall, claiming her mouth with his own and feeling wonderful things he hadn't felt in a while.

It was like God saying, Here you go, Pete! This is for your dead brother and that psychopath killer! Sorry it took so long!

Whatever. He'd take it.

Her hands were entangled in his hair and his arms were wrapped possessively around her waist as they finally pulled apart for air, both breathing heavily with wild eyes.

"…Wow…" Emma panted, eyes wide, a shocked expression on her innocent face.

Peter chuckled, leaning his forehead against hers. "Yeah…" he added. "Wow."

She smiled, feeling the best she'd felt since…well, since before her nephew died. Distracted, she pushed the thought away, but it still grounded her back to reality. They had left the hospital to find the compass, but upon entering Emma's apartment, discussing her cello playing and the giant crack in the wall between the windows, somehow he had cornered her and…

"Aren't we supposed to be rescuing your niece?"

Peter nodded, untangling himself from her body. "Yeah. Right. Compass. Claire."

Emma couldn't wipe the grin off her face as she watched him readjust his mussed hair and disheveled clothing. Tempted to throw her arms around him and kiss him all over again, she quickly turned and walked to her bureau, opening up a side drawer and pulling out the infamous small, bronze compass, holding it in her palm as the dial began to swirl.

"A strange man gave it to me," she explained, turning back to Peter and presenting it to him; he took the item and studied it intently. The arrow continued to swirl, but he looked at her as she began to speak and sign to him; he really needed to learn sign language. "He said that at this place, people would accept me. They would like my ability…" She smiled sadly. "He said they'd even like my disability." Her gaze fell to the floor, a weight settling in her chest.

Peter didn't like the sound of that. He stepped closer to her, capturing her chin in his free hand. "Hey…there's no such thing as a disability," he admonished, "just…obstacles."

She rolled her eyes about to comment when he placed another gentle kiss on her lips, one that made her smile all over again.

As he pulled away, he whispered, "I'll be back soon." And, he gave one last quick kiss before heading to the door.

"But, I want to come!"

He stopped, turning slowly to look at her.

"Emma…this is really dangerous."

She arched an eyebrow, signing something that he didn't understand.

"What?"

She sighed in exasperation. "Dangerous my ass."

Peter stood open mouthed, eyebrows arched for a moment, surprise taking over as Emma smirked, brushing past him and opening the door only pausing to glance back at him.

"Well, are you coming?"

He shook his head, laughing, and followed her out.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."


Sylar was a man of logic. This was obvious.

He made plans without emotion because emotions make you sloppy, careless. He wasn't careless.

He was precise, cunning, exact. He had every possibility laid out down to the last escape car because without it, the unthinkable could occur.

Sylar was always calculating. Quiet. Analytical.

A predator unaffected by the feelings of the prey or his own volitions. Only the ache of hunger fueled him constantly. Not love, hate, or sadness. Pure hunger and lust for power.

So why was he suddenly angry enough to kill?

This question bothered him terribly as he observed passersby from the safety of a police car (with dead officer in back and clean uniform on himself) on classic college campus. Noah Bennett stepped out of his own car across the street and headed towards the girls' dorm. God, the mere sight of the man made him grip the steering wheel tightly while his blood boiled. If only he could tear out of the car that moment and slice his head clean off…

No. No, that wasn't the plan. The plan was to see what old Papa Bennett was up to and maybe if Claire was around to mess with. Maybe if she was, he'd tear her scalp off and poke her brain so Noah could watch. Yeah, that sounded good: her screams for help, his look of revulsion and desperation, the clean satisfaction of having his fury absolved…

Ha. So much for no emotions.

Sylar closed his eyes and took a deep breath. No, he'd wait. He'd learn, observe, and wait.

However, in the course of that rigorous plan, the sun grew long in the sky, and the man didn't appear for a good twenty minutes, which seemed like centuries to Sylar, so he gradually drifted off to sleep.

It was an hour or so later when he was jolted awake by the sound of rowdy frat boys slamming on his windows and running away yelling, half drunk. He growled, tempted to set them on fire. He was quickly distracted, though, as Noah was walking out of the dorm and towards his car with two more people, one recognized and the other not.

Oh, look! Good ol' Pete! Of course he was in league with Glasses himself.

Raging fury coursed through his veins, warming him down to his toes.

Sylar shook his head. How could years of meticulous mental training go down the tube so quickly? Sure, he'd been absent a little while, and he had every right to have the burning rage of a thousand hells, but the thing that gave him the power over others was that he didn't . He took control of his anger and channeled it towards the ultimate goal rather than the little ones. Maybe Nathan had taken deeper root than what he thought.

He ignored the idea and instead focused his supersonic ears onto their conversation.

"…says she doesn't think she's coming back."

Peter seemed annoyed. "Yeah, well, that'll change once she finds out her dad's dead, and her nightmare is on the loose."

Noah glowered, feeling the accusation as he spoke. "It was a quick solution; we thought it would work."

Peter scoffed. "Obviously, it didn't." He came dangerously close to Noah's face. "And, I had to watch my brother kill himself because of it."

The unknown woman reached out and touched his arm gently, squeezing it.

Noah narrowed his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses. "I'm sorry about Nathan; I really am." He paused, taking a moment to let Peter understand. "But, right now isn't the time to point fingers. We need to get to Claire and get her to safety before we look for him. Is Angela gone?"

Peter nodded. "Out of the country."

Noah nodded in return. "Good."

Other mindless chatter about how they would take him down…worry about Claire…blah blah blah. To Sylar, it was mundane since he was going to kill all of them anyway. What difference did it make if they got to Claire first?

Well, they would all be together. That's one.

And, he could make Claire watch as she murdered her heroes. That's two.

The idea became ever more delectable the more Sylar thought about it.

As the cars of his adversaries revved up their engines, he started his own, careful to stay a steady distance behind them as they pulled out of the campus lot.

Just like the engines, his hunger roared to life.