"Now remember to make your movements light on the canvas, since we're using the wet technique…that's it. Your clouds are lovely, dear."

Angela stood over Claire's shoulder as she dotted her midnight sky with wisps of grey, allowing just a glimmer of her yellowy moon to peak out. This was just her granddaughter's third day of painting, but Angela could see the girl had talent. She wanted to cultivate it, to nurture it so that Claire could see that there was more to life than this tired crusade to save humanity. Angela could easily make sure that Claire studied in any of the finest universities around the world.

Unfortunately, Claire didn't have the passion for art. She finished her last streaks of clouds, sighed, and put down the brush.

"Pick up your brush," Angela told her firmly. "You aren't done."

Claire turned around in her seat and looked at her grandmother with defiant eyes. "How much longer are we going to hide out like this? When are we going to stop sitting here while people get hurt and do something?"

They'd been staying at Angela's vacation house in Albany for over a week now, waiting out the backlash following Claire's stunt in Central Park. For the first few days, Angela and Peter had been able to convince Claire to hide out from the world, at least until the riots had ended. But the young girl was getting restless and impatient, and they feared she would do something foolish again if they couldn't keep her under control.

"Claire. A vast majority of those people you're thinking of are crying out for your head. They'll rip you apart if you go out there."

"But I started this. How can I just stand by and not be a part of it?"

"Because this isn't your revolution, or mine, or any one person's. It's all of ours. You lit the fire; you have to let it burn."

Claire slumped forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her thighs as she rubbed her temples. Angela laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Just paint for a little while longer today, dear. You have to do something to relieve your stress. I'll let you be for now." Angela turned to leave, and realized Sylar had been standing in the doorway.

Angela froze, her hand automatically coming to her heart. She swallowed, controlled herself. "Sylar," she greeted him.

"Angela," Sylar returned. "May I come in?"

"Of course." Angela turned back to her granddaughter, who had picked up her brush and had resumed her painting in almost a mindless, mechanical manner.

She was reluctant to leave Claire alone with Sylar, but she couldn't let him sense her fear. She had to believe that Peter's growing friendship with the man who'd killed her son would keep him under control. "I'll be upstairs," Angela announced, in a slightly louder voice than was necessary, as she left the room.

Sylar approached Claire softly, as though he were coming into the room of a sleeping baby, even though he knew she was fully aware of his presence. She hadn't acknowledged him yet. She dipped her brush into the paints, allowing the colors to swirl together, then ran it over the canvas in a free, almost haphazard way.

"I brought you a book I thought you'd like." Sylar laid it down on the table behind her. "Portnoy's Complaint. I read it in high school, thought it was funny…" he trailed off, feeling miserable.

Claire gave the book the briefest of glances before returning to her painting. "Thank you," she told him simply.

Sylar tried again. "Emma offered to make dinner tonight. Is there anything you'd like?"

"I'm not very hungry, someone else can decide. I'm sure it will be fine," Claire replied, finishing her clouds.

He knew he wasn't going to get anything else out of her. Ever since they'd come to the hideout, Claire had been tractable, even polite, but elusive. Only Peter, who wanted him keep an eye on him, and Emma, who had no idea about the things he'd done, had kept him company. Angela had been cold to him, but that didn't bother Sylar. After the things she'd done to him, her feelings mattered very little. Claire, however, was a different story.

Sylar had kept his distance at first, knowing that his presence upset her. But he couldn't stay away forever, and she had to know that. So he'd begun to turn away to leave, but he willed himself to stay and try again to reach her.

"Claire," he began. "Claire, would it help if I began by saying I'm sorry?"

"For what?" she asked, her eyes still trained to the canvas.

Sylar rolled his eyes. "You know what I'm talking about."

Claire put down her brush and deigned to look at him. "No, I don't. Are you referring to what you've done to me, or to Peter, or to my grandmother, or to the countless other people you've hurt? Are you referring to all of us? Because if you are, 'sorry' is a pathetic place to begin."

She chuckled now as she dipped her paint into crimson red and began to outline the branches of a tree. "Now that I think about it, 'sorry' fits you just fine."

Before he could control himself, Sylar pointed his finger at her canvas and sent it flying across the room, and it smacked against the wall with such force it cracked in two. Claire was so startled she dropped her brush, staining her hands and legs.

He stood over her now, his eyes burning with anger. "I'm doing the best that I can! I don't expect things to change overnight, but I have to start somewhere! Doesn't my saving you and Emma prove that I'm not the same person I was? Why can't you at least acknowledge that?"

Claire defiantly returned his gaze. "I thanked you for doing that, didn't I? I've been civil to you. I listened when you and Peter told me to stay here. I haven't tried to ruin your friendships with Peter and Emma. You can't ask more of me."

Sylar turned away in frustration, more from the lack of words to argue instead of what Claire actually said to him. Finally he turned back to Claire, who had remained sitting on her stool with quiet control.

"Claire…I can live with lots of people hating me. The reason I can is because I know that eventually all those people are going to be gone, and I'm going to remain, living with my guilt. But one day…it's just going to be you and I that are left. One day…everyone we love is going to leave us."

He knelt down in front of her now, being careful not to touch her. "Claire, I know you've thought about this, even if you don't want to admit it. It's hard to imagine a hundred years, or fifty, or even ten years from now. But that's what you and I have – eternity. We have to start somewhere in building a relationship."

Claire looked down at her knees, at her thin satin sky-blue skirt, stained blood red. She looked at Sylar with weary eyes. "Where do you want to start, Sylar?" she asked, holding up her hands in helplessness. "Do you want me to start with how much I miss Nathan? Or the suffocating rage I feel every time I look at you? Do you want to start with the fact that I still have nightmares about what you did to me? Where do we start?" She sighed in frustration and got off of the stool, walking away.

Sylar held up his hand, ready to use his power to freeze her in her tracks. This time he was able to stop himself, realizing in time that it would only make things worse. He watched her leave.


Peter was buttoning the long, leather coat Sylar had gotten for him and was getting ready to leave. He walked over to the den, where Emma was watching the news. There were media experts who were now claiming that Claire's jump from the ferris wheel was a hoax, since authorities had been unable to locate her since it was first broadcast. Another segment reported that sites like YouTube were now packed with clips from others with abilities following Claire's example and showing off their skills. Many of them, however, were clearly staged.

All regular programming – sitcoms, talk shows, sports games – all had been canceled for continuous discussion of these new abilities that had been discovered. The media was simply not going to let go of the story, any time soon.

Peter laid a hand on Emma's shoulder to get her attention. She turned around in surprise. "Oh! Peter! I was just going to start dinner. Where are you going?"

"Meeting with Hesam. I want to see if he can get us some medical supplies. I'll be back in time for dinner." He leaned over the sofa and kissed her forehead.

"Peter…" Emma called out. She had finally worked up the courage to ask when they would be able to stop hiding and let their loved ones know they were all right.

"Yes?"

"I, uh…tell Hesam I said hello."

Peter smiled, knowing that that wasn't what Emma was going to ask. "I'll do that."

Emma turned away. "Thanks," she replied, the disappointment quite evident in her voice.

Peter passed the living room as he left, catching Claire sitting by the bay windows out of the corner of his eye. Even though he was in a rush, he still felt he needed to check on her. He came up to her, sitting on the floor next to the window seat. He held up his hand to her, and she took it, holding it to her heart.

"Sylar tried to talk to you," Peter told, not asked, her.

A sniffle was his reply.

"He's not going to go back to his old ways. I'll make sure of that. It's different now."

Claire exhaled deeply and wiped away a tear. "It's not that – not only that. He's asked for my forgiveness. And I can't do it."

Peter pulled Claire's hand to him now, kissing her fingers. "No one's asking you to forgive him overnight. I can't say it was luck, but it was an…advantage, in some ways, that the dream world Sylar and I were trapped in seemed like years. We had time to come to understand each other, and when we finally got out, the world was still the way we left it. He knows it's not going to work that way with you."

She shook her head. "I want to be able to forgive – I'm tired of carrying this with me all the time – but…" she trailed off.

"But you feel like you'd be betraying Nathan if you forgave Sylar," Peter finished for her.

She nodded, new tears forming. "Didn't you feel that way?"

Peter got off the floor and sat next to Claire, pulling her to him. "Yes. That's why I was trapped with Sylar in that nightmare for so long. I felt like forgiving him would make me weak somehow, that I was letting him get away with something."

"So how did you do it?"

Peter smiled. "I realized that it was the only way I was ever going to be free, and it's the same in your case. Look, you loved Nathan, and he loved you. That's not going to change, whether you forgive Sylar or not." Peter now got up to leave.

"Peter?" Claire asked. "One more thing. I thought that, well, that my dad would try to find me by now. If he contacted you, you'd tell me, right?"

Peter smiled and gently wiped a tear away from her cheek. "You know I would. Look, Emma's going to need help making dinner. Why don't you lend a hand? It'll take your mind off of everything."

Claire managed a smile and left to join Emma in the kitchen. Peter walked to the front door, and looking around to make sure no one else was looking for him, left the house.


The evening brought a chilly wind that swept mercilessly through Lincoln Park. Peter pulled his coat a little closer to him and walked briskly to the bench where he had been instructed to wait. He sat down on the sad grey little seat and sharply watched the scene. It was surprisingly quiet, considering the turmoil that the country had been in for the past week. Then again, people were probably terrified to leave their homes, believing that flying men and women who could make blizzards out of thin air would come and get them. It was just as well; Peter didn't want any audiences during his meeting.

"I always loved this park," a voice said from the shadows. Peter stood up when he heard this, and shook hands with Noah once he appeared in the light of the streetlamp.

The older man eyed Peter closely. "No one followed you; you made sure of that?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Peter replied, thinking now that for all he knew, Sylar was waiting somewhere in the darkness, listening to the entire conversation. Peter hadn't told Noah that Sylar was the one who'd rescued Claire, and that he was now spending time guarding her at Angela's home. He knew that if he did, he'd be guaranteeing the speedy reunion that Claire was hoping for, but at the cost of Sylar's rehabilitation. Noah's blind hatred of Sylar would surely send the latter into relapse.

Peter hated lying, and he was lying to nearly everyone he cared about. He was lying to Claire and Angela about his contact with Noah; he was lying to Noah about Sylar's proximity to Claire; he was lying to Emma about who Sylar really was. The only person, ironically, that Peter had completely confided in was Sylar. Peter had done this because he knew that being lied to was the one thing that could ruin Sylar's redemption. Peter couldn't risk losing such a powerful ally – not when there was so much at stake.

So Peter managed an easy smile and turned the subject to conversation to Claire. "She asked about you today; she misses you."

Noah's face lit up for the briefest of moments before it turned cold and dispassionate once more. "I didn't come here to talk about Claire; I came to tell you that we're almost ready on our end. Between Lauren and me, we've been able to track down the Haitian and at least three others that have his ability. We've also found three empaths that can absorb the ability, one who can transfer powers from one person to another, and two illusionists. Add you in there, and we should be able to fix this entire mess."

Peter nodded. "So where you do need me?"

"You, Rene, and one of the illusionists will handle all the locations in this country. We'll meet in DC tomorrow night to distribute the locations. Here's the address and time."

Peter glanced at the slip of paper briefly, then slipped it into his breast pocket. "Are you sure this is going to work?"

Noah laid a reassuring hand on Peter's shoulder. "I'm sure. It's a massive project, but we can do this. Once every news station, every leader at the local, state and national level, denounces the video of Claire jumping from the wheel as a fake, things will go back to normal."

Peter looked away in apprehension. "What are we going to tell Claire?"

Noah smiled. "You'll still have Rene's power. You can…ease her mind." With that, Noah patted Peter's shoulder and walked away into the night.

Peter pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket and looked at it again. He held the piece of paper between his fingers, ready to tear it into dozens of little pieces and throw them up into the air like snow. A part of him was screaming for it to be done.

But he didn't do it. Instead he folded the paper neatly, and placed it safely in its hiding place in his pocket. Peter turned and began his trip back to his mother's house, never feeling more like a traitor than he did in that very moment.