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Chapter 3

He remembered a time when the shadows had been important, when they had been necessary for his survival. He wished no one to see his face, hidden under the worn ball cap, his body shrouded in the dark, his black coat to make him one with the night. He had to hide his shame, his guilt, as some terrible driving force kept begging him to take, take, take...more and more powers...it was never enough for him. He needed to know more...to have more...to understand everything until his life could finally make sense, until he could finally be worth something.

But the cold victory of the night always lead to the guilt-riddled aftermath in which he would scrawl on his walls in endless pleas of forgiveness...Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...his hands drenched in blood-red paint...soaking into his skin where the blood of another had stained only hours ago. His mind would hurt during these times, racing and reeling. His conscience felt like a pair of hands choking him slowly. Everything hurt...but everything had always hurt. And it hurt worse to not know, to not have, to not be the most special...

He picked up the newspaper one morning, holding it in his hand that was still covered in blood-red paint from the night before. At one time having his hands still dirtied would have bothered him to no end...things were better if they were clean and neat...but now he found he didn't care. There was a new dark compulsion taking over his mind and he was surrendering himself over to it.

His eyes flashed as a news article leapt out at him. A girl had rushed into a burning train wreckage and saved a man. She was a hero. But more importantly, without explanation, she had emerged from the flames without a single burn.

She couldn't get hurt. She could never hurt.

He always hurt.

He wanted to know how that worked...to never hurt again.

So it was again in the shadows of the night that he stalked his prey...the Texas high school's homecoming. It was so trivial, so pointless how these young people...children really...seemed to think this night was of some great importance in their lives. It meant nothing, and they all meant nothing.

Only she meant something. She meant something because she was special. She had that delightful power, that delicious ability...but soon he would have it, he would have what made her so special.

He waited in the shadows, using his telekinesis to turn the power off. It was better to operate in darkness. After all, what would his mother think...? No, no...he pushed those thoughts deep down and buried them, focusing instead on his victim. He could hear the voices of two young girls emanating forth. They were arguing, but their words were not reaching him. He was much too focused on the throb-throb-throb of the crimson blood coursing through his veins, his heart slamming against his ribcage, his adrenaline flowing as he felt the power and control that came with stalking her...luring her into his trap...setting the stage to steal her power from her and make it his for always.

She was scared...frightened like a small, innocent animal trapped but unaware of the danger that lurked just around the corner. The other girl was scared too, but she was hardly registering as a person who was present to him. All his focus was on HER...the special one.

The other was smarter though, leaving while she still had the chance. He'd let her go, she was of no consequence, she had nothing he wanted. The special one remained where she was, her stance and defiant words telling him that she didn't sense the approaching danger at all. Foolish girl, silly, silly girl...

He was right behind her, but she still didn't sense him. It was almost too easy...it certainly wasn't his fault he was bigger and stronger than her...that she had something he so desperately wanted and needed...but had no way in which to defend herself. He certainly couldn't be blamed for that.

He grabbed her by the arm with lightening quickness, using telekinesis to help throw her up against the wall, pushing her up as high as he could, his hands wrapping tightly around her throat. She was screaming and struggling, helpless little legs and feet kicking madly against the hard metal of the lockers.

The irony of the situation did not escape him. He had loathed high school, deciding it was some of his darkest years. He had been mocked for how strange he was perceived to be, how socially awkward he was...but worse than those days was the majority of the time, in which he remained invisible and no one noticed or talked to him. That was worse than all the taunts and jeers...he was so unimportant that he wasn't worth having his existence acknowledged. And then there were the cheerleaders...those pretty, pretty cheerleaders...always with bouncy, shining hair, sparkling eyes and teeth, those short skirts and nice legs...

But those had been bad thoughts. He tried to avoid the cheerleaders, sometimes for the bad thoughts it would give him, but mostly for the even worse thoughts that they would never notice him, never even recognize that they attended the same school together. He would never know companionship...never know the softness of a kiss...and he was so lonely. But he wasn't special like them, and he never would be.

Now a cheerleader was making him special...the poetic justice was beautiful.

His solemn reflection of the moment was shattered when someone ran up and grabbed at his arm...it was the other girl, the one he would have let live...stupid girl...now she had to go too.

It was her fault, he wanted her to live. He would have never pursued her...he hated hurting children; after all...it never felt right. It was sometimes necessary...when they had something he NEEDED so badly...but now he'd have to kill the other girl and he hadn't even needed anything from her. This angered him to no end, as he threw her away from him, using telekinesis to be certain that when her body slammed into those lockers and crumpled to the floor, she would never rise again.

Now he was angry, the control of the situation seeming to have slipped a little from his grasp. And he hated losing control...and the special one was screaming...screaming and screaming...that needed to stop...he pushed his hand to encompass her mouth...she would bring attention to herself...and he only needed what SHE had...stupid, stupid girl...

He felt the want grow all the stronger within him...never to hurt...never to hurt...how could you never hurt? How did that work...he needed to know...needed to know...needed...

When his brain raced like this there was no way to calm it, no way to feed its curiosity. The only way to calm himself...to silence himself...to silence HER...was to cut.

To cut and cut and cut and watch as the crimson stream rushed from her head...stained his hands a death red...yes, yes...it was oddly calming...because now he could understand. He could finally understand.

But there was a commotion going on to the side of him, and it was distracting, disturbing the calm he was trying to harness in his need to know...he flashed his gaze to the side in an attempt to see what it was.

The other girl...the non-important one, the non-special one. The just a girl, just a cheerleader, just an ordinary, everyday girl he had ignored almost the moment he had laid eyes on her. Because she was nothing, and he had been nothing too. He didn't like nothing.

She was healing, bones he had broken being worked back into place, red gashes he had scarred her with quickly disappearing, her mangled right eye shifting back into place.

She was healed. She couldn't get hurt.

She was special...and he wanted it. Oh, he wanted it...more than ever now...this one he held in his hands was the nothing, the insignificant nothing. He had missed the special one, and the irony was even more beautiful than ever. Of course SHE would be special, the just a girl, just a cheerleader...she was so, so, so much more special than this bloody corpse he held in his hand. The girl he held was hurt and she would always hurt because she was nothing.

He needed to be special.

He dropped his first victim, his focus now solely on that special little girl. She was a pretty little girl, just as he remembered all the cheerleaders had been, and she held a quality of permeating innocence about her that his first victim had lacked. He liked that. It was better this way...little innocent, special girl...

He cast his first victim one last fleeting glance...she was dead, and she hadn't needed to die...a whisper of guilt tore at what he was sure was his already damned soul. But it had been her fault anyhow, trying to take credit for something she had clearly not done. Silly girl, of course she was not the special one, it seemed so obvious to him now.

The strength and control of the situation was elating him once more, as he strode purposefully and powerfully towards that pretty, special one. She could run all she liked; she would never get too far from his grasp. He could walk as slowly as he liked, it only thrilled him further as she ran and cried out, for she had already lost and she and he both knew it.

He turned the corner, intent to hunt down and follow her scared little trail...when he stopped walking suddenly.

There was a man there...he was of a strong and sturdy build. He had thick brown hair that slipped in front of what appeared to be sharp, hazel eyes. He was dressed in a long coat too, but it was beige and he seemed made for the light.

The man was exuding something calming...something soothing...he had a quiet, gentle strength. And he held the innocent, special girl in his arms with all the chivalrous strength that Sylar had read about in his old stories of knights and gentlemanly heroes.

They ran together, and Sylar watched, stone-faced. The young man was protecting her. He was like Superman, or Spiderman, but he was better because the young man was not special. He was just a man. He was Peter Parker saving Mary Jane, but not knowing he had any superpowers, not relying on the fact that he was anything more, anything greater, than just ordinary Peter Parker. Maybe just being Peter Parker was enough...

But it never was.

And then something else intriguing happened. He watched them run, unmoving; knowing his special little girl still could not get too far...when the young man had stopped running. The young man was sure he had given the special little girl a good start, and now he had turned to stand his ground and face the den of lions...the giant, Goliath...the Egyptian pharaoh...

The monster.

The young man was breathing heavily but he did not waver as he stood his ground, watching Sylar with sharp, intense hazel eyes. Sylar noted something else...the man was not fearless. He was afraid standing before Sylar. Sylar could practically hear the young man's heart pounding in his chest in terror, but he did not move.

He was a hero...but he was nothing.

It was not enough to be Daniel...David...Moses...without the power of God. It was not enough to be Hercules without the power of inhuman strength. It was not enough to be Odysseus without his cunning and intelligence. It was not enough to be Clark Kent without the power of his ancestors...it was not enough to be Peter Parker until he was bitten by that radioactive spider. It was not enough to be Gabriel and be a hero...he needed those powers...needed more and more just like all the heroes he had ever read about...

This young man had nothing...who was he? Who was he to stare in the face of someone so powerful, so special, and think HE was enough?

A different, powerful emotion rippled through Sylar. Jealousy...? He would kill this young man. He would show the young man...show him it is never enough to be a nothing and still be a hero...the young man would die for his presumptions.

With only a mere thought, Sylar was able to send lockers flying at the young man. Although Sylar kept his face emotionless his insides flipped at the sight, the young man's fear had finally overtaken him...he was running now...dodging the lockers and running just as scared and frightened as all of Sylar's other victims had been.

After all, he wasn't Spiderman. He was just Peter Parker.

Sylar was almost disappointed...

Sylar quickened his pace, but was determined not to let the presence of this young man unnerve him. He was just a man, after all, just like all the other men he had killed. There was nothing special about him...the GIRL was the special one...he wanted her...he wanted to understand her...

She couldn't hurt.

But the young man was still there, holding onto the special little girl as tightly as he could. Protecting her, enshrouding her in safety, shielding her from evil.

From monsters.

They ran up the steps together, the precious, special one still encircled in the young man's strong grasp. He wouldn't let her go, he wouldn't let her slip away and allow monsters to devour her...maybe he knew her, maybe he was a relative and loved her...or maybe he just protected innocent, little girls from monsters like Sylar...

Sylar was angry now...furious...the young man and special one were speaking to each other, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. A new feeling was overtaking him, and Sylar realized with sudden ferocity that he didn't care about that special, little girl at the moment. He'd catch her, she was small and defenseless, and she was just an innocent little creature with no way of protecting herself.

No...his only focus now was on this young man. His purposeful strides were solely towards that young man...he wasn't sure if it was to kill him or to simply understand him...what made him so brave...? What made him so strong...? And if this was the beginning of some great, cosmic journey that Sylar was finding himself on...as it was often starting to feel during his quest for power...was this young man the hero of that journey?

If this young man was the hero...then Sylar was the villain.

He didn't like that. He was never proud of what he did, was always guilt-riddled and crushed after his victories...had cried out to God for forgiveness hundreds of times...had prayed his rosary for absolution until the beads cut into his hands; he had been holding it so tightly.

But he was never the villain... he was never the villain until he was opposed by a hero.

The young man's shouts pulled Sylar from his desperate thoughts. "Go!" The young man urged, pointing to the path of salvation, urging the precious little thing to save herself. He was protectively asserting himself in front of her; he was still her savior in all ways possible. The special one hesitated, obviously reluctant to desert her shining knight, but the young man was resolute in his defense.

"GO!" And this time it was a commanding order rather than a plea, and the special one had no choice but to obey. That had been unexpected, as he had been so gentle and calming in his ways that he had effectively hid that commanding power and strong authority. But his words were so cutting and forceful that the special one had fled, her soft, golden mane bouncing behind her.

The young man weakened though, as most heroes do, in the presence of an innocent, precious girl. Instead of turning to face and slay the monster, he watched the special one's retreating form with gentle, compassionate eyes...as if his intent gaze could force her to run any faster...to save her any more efficiently.

Sylar was upon him before that young man could possibly realize his mistake...and when the young man turned to gaze upon Sylar's face, a strong wave of thrill mixed with anxiety nearly overpowered Sylar.

The young man was scared again...he was gazing up in horror...for Sylar was authoritatively taller than him. That thrilled Sylar somewhat, being taller than this man was a display of masculine authority, one he had been granted naturally with his long stature. That was nothing he had stolen.

But Sylar's anxiety remained as well, for although the young man was afraid...feeling as though he was looking up into the face of the apocalyptic Beast, no doubt...the young man still stood his ground and would not falter.

He was that precious, little special one's hero, after all. And he could not fall from grace, could not dent his armor, and could not scrape off his shine. He had to be her hero. She was small and innocent and pretty and special, and he was the only one entrusted to keep her all of those things.

The young man was a hero...and Sylar was a villain. Sylar was there to take the small, the innocent, the pretty, the special...and kill it. Kill all of it.

The young man was scared, but he couldn't stop being strong and brave. That little, special one counted on him after all. And who counted on Sylar...who believed in Sylar...who kept Sylar strong and brave?

Sylar's anger was stronger and more violent than ever now, raging through him at the injustices that the universe constantly presented him.

Gabriel was not special...could not be special...could not be brave or strong...and innocent, special girls never looked at him with such faith and determination to save them from the monsters that hid in the shadows.

Because he was the monster.

Hardly thinking now, his heart slamming wildly against his ribcage in violent anger, Sylar reached to grab the young man by the throat. To do what, he hardly knew, he knew he just wanted this young man to go away...to disappear...to stop being a hero so that Sylar could stop being a villain.

But the young man would not go away...nor disappear...he grabbed Sylar by the shoulders and with a force Sylar hardly expected, the young man used both men's momentum to hurtle them from the top of the stairs to the ground many feet below.

Sylar instinctively used his telekinesis to slow his fall...but his mind was still racing with uncontrolled thoughts...the young man was not special. The young man was a nothing. He would die from this fall...no one could survive it without being special...and yet he still willing took the plunge...for what? To protect that innocent, little, special one? Who was she, to die for? To throw yourself over the edge of the earth with a monster for? Knowing the monster may live while you went off to the Elysian Fields, just on some small chance that your damsel in distress, your Mary Jane Watson, would be saved from a monster's clutches?

All thoughts left Sylar, however, as he collided with the earth below. He had slowed his fall sufficiently to save his life, but it had happened too fast to keep the ground from knocking him unconscious. He didn't awake until several moments later, his body feeling stiff and the ground pressing into him in an unforgiving, painful manner.

He was hurt...he had definitely hurt his leg. And there were sirens fast approaching...and the special one was long gone.

Sylar cursed himself for losing his focus. The whole reason he had risked, and carefully planned, and stalked the grounds of this Texas High School to begin with was because he had wished never to hurt again. But now his body was wracked with pain both physical and mental. He had that innocent, little special one in his grasp and he had let her slip through his fingers. And why? For some no one, some nothing, some insignificant man that had stood in his way?

The young man never really posed any threat...it was all Sylar's pathetic romanticism of his own journey that distracted him...and NOW he would hurt, and he DID hurt, and he would CONTINUE to hurt...always...always...always...

Sylar tried to stand and he felt something broken and unmoving beneath him. He glanced down to see the young man. Broken, defeated, cold...dead.

"There's the hero." Sylar murmured, pushing himself up onto his long legs...it hurt, one was particularly feeling as if it was in bad shape. "You're foolish...you aren't a hero. You're nothing...and now you're dead. And the girl will still die."

For the young man hadn't saved anything...not the cheerleader nor the world...but he had been strong and brave, if for a time.

"You're different." Sylar conceded, and he pushed himself away, limping towards the shadows once more. The young man had been different, and Sylar was almost sorry that he had died like that. It was such an unbefitting death for such a brave man.

But Sylar was also angry, and the young man had caused those feelings. Because of the young man, Sylar would still hurt. And he was so very tired of hurting.

Sylar cast one more glance over his shoulder. The young man laid there, eyes open and glassy, body broken and twisted in a grotesque manner, thick, brown hair falling over his face in disarray, a pool of blood growing around him.

It entered Sylar's mind to rearrange the young man's body...to put him in a less grotesque position...to move him so that he looked more at peace and less broken and twisted.

But Sylar quickly pushed that thought aside. He was romanticizing the young man and who he was too much. He hadn't been a real hero...he wasn't truly Spiderman, after all...

He was only Peter Parker.