Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. Canon-based AU.

A revelations chapter. Sylar, Peter, Claire, and all the main storylines. A longer chapter, lots of work and re-writing, many points to cover. (The title for this chapter borrowed from the band named Callisto.)

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Rating: T

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Sensitive to faith not

Denial. But hey who's on trial?

Lyrics by Interpol

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Chapter 7: True Nature Unfolds

Everything has a function, a way of operating. Sylar knows it. But Gabriel Gray lacked the conviction. Numbed by the mundane and ordinary around him, he had wasted years of his unhatched life, thinking that watches were the only things that ticked. Back then, being a clockmaker seemed as good a destiny as any. Or so he thought.

The opportunity had dawned on him years later when meeting Brian Davis – a whiny little man who gave him his most powerful tool, his first stolen gift... Just lying there, waiting for him to reach out and claim it. And it was like removing the pillar plate of his very first watch.

After that, things had got easier, one skill followed another and he even learned to hear the ticking sound that people made. Soft thump-thump and then the wheels turn no more. He knows there are lots of lessons waiting, new systems to explore, skills to acquire, people to dissect.

– He's not a psychopath. The way he watches her in the shadows is methodical and has nothing to do with the crime of passion. Everything is planned. He has a purpose. A destiny to fulfill. Even as a handsome stranger, he keeps his eye on her identity card, and brushing a hand through the reddish locks he asks if she's on duty. She giggles self-consciously and reveals her schedule.

It was Candice who taught him that people only see what they wish to see.


Their breakfast is heavy with apprehension. She has feared this, but he's seen it coming. They drown their sorrows in the coffee, dark and brooding. Claire thinks she's getting hooked on sugar. This morning she burnt her tongue for the first time. Peter still drinks his black. The routine kills, but it's the only constant thing in their lives.

Something is going on and getting too careless has made it harder to keep up their little act. His fingers tighten around his mug and the table hides her shaky knees. The turmoil in her stomach must be the caffeine, naturally, and there's no discussion of what really occupies their minds. Saying loud it is making it real and thoughts don't count, even with Peter.

Somewhere between the toast and cereal she finally voices the question about Nathan. A negative response follows and he keeps his paranoia to himself. Of course he should have called by now. Any normal brother would have. Instead, what they get is Mohinder, rattling on about his discovery and Claire's face falls. – Fine. They might as well go.

-

Chewing on his food extra-slow, he pretends they're not lagging. The balcony looks ominous, but taking the cab would be admitting that this is becoming uncomfortable for them both… What if they try teleportation this time? He swallows his drink, wondering why getting stuck in the future now seems just a second worse option.

Hands on her waist, he thinks he's burning holes in her sweater. Anything? He opens his eyes, and they're still on the exact same spot. Claire's face is expectant, maybe nervous, fingers tap on his lapels. Her eyebrows inch a little higher: Mohinder's apartment, focus… Right. How did Hiro to do that?

Half an hour later, he throws some bucks to the driver and Claire slams the door behind her.

The apartment building peers at them with a hundred black eyes and he takes her by the hand, thinking that she needs guidance. His fingers ache through her body, but she won't pull away, afraid it might get worse. Her guardian angel is a paranoid nurse, and she has to remind herself that she's not actually sick.

The door squeaks plaintively in the dim-lit passage. "Let's go," he mumbles to himself and waits her to follow.


Veronica's shift starts at 8 am. Around half past eleven she slips out, two slender legs flashing under the tight skirt. It's a bit of a stretch, Sylar thinks, but surprises have served him well so far. And he's always wanted to try this one. She returns ten minutes earlier than usual and smiles at the security control. Today, she takes the ninth floor and disappears at the turn. This is also the last time the surveillance camera ever picks her up.

The files, the documents – everything he needs is behind that metal door. He could use his will to pull it open, but the security is a nuisance and he can't risk any more encounters with the Haitian. There's got to be another way. He studies the panel. The '3' and the 'A' buttons look slightly worn among the others. And for an instant, letters and numbers gleam bright on the display and all he has to do is type in the code.

With a beep that sounds a lot like a triumph the doors slide open. Sylar laughs; he is coming to like Anthony, after all.

-

Once inside, he finds everything he's ever dreamed of. The entire collection of specials – not a stingy little list anymore, but the whole thing, along with addresses and ways how to track them down. But time is sparse. Some more code breaking and he's in the computer database. Technopathy, regeneration, self-propelled flight – all of them will have to wait, for there's something much more important at stake. His own survival.

Molly.

The photo of a little girl is smiling at him from the screen, obviously taken before she became an orphan, before she knew anything about the boogeyman named Sylar. Yes, he's failed to get her – three times, to be exact. And then he forgot about her what with that empath and his cheerleader getting on his way.

He had somehow assumed she had a pretty moderate ability – a passive one like her father's – nothing to fret about. A smaller job to finish later. There was no way of knowing that behind those shiny eyes was hiding a human GPS.

Suddenly, the alarm goes off, wailing throughout the whole complex. Down there, Veronica's body must have been found and his handwriting is as clear as day. Grabbing some files, he rushes off to escape the full lockdown. A janitor, a security guard, an officer. He's here one second and gone the next.

"We lost him," the chief mutters in the transmitter, beaten. The hallway appears empty and Sylar passes him like plain air.


Meeting at his old place is risky enough. But this­… They stop mid-way.

No. No way. "What's she doing here?" Peter's voice is sharp with betrayal and Claire simply wants to turn around and leave the way the way they came.

'She' remains still, delicate hands poised on the hips, hiding any signs of apprehension.

"Relax, she's harmless," Mohinder assures with a wave of hand, trying to quench the flames like a true arbitrator. He knew the scientist was sort of an idealist, but this is plain stupidity. "She can help us with the cure."

Peter eyes them, suspicious. "How do you mean?"

He explains that Elle is suffering from the same thing as his niece. A bit more different manifestation, but it helps us to understand the cause.

It's spreading, Claire thinks with horror. A quick glance at Peter. Oh no.

He doubts it. "How did she get it? You said it's not contagious."

Mohinder pauses before continuing. Elle shifts uncomfortably under his stare.

"Apparently, it can be transmitted through blood transfusion. Your blood, Claire."

-

Dragging the geneticist to the adjoining room, Peter confronts him about his decision. How can he trust her? She's dangerous and a liability. Mohinder insists they have no other choice. Peter says they do. "She's Bob's daughter, for God's sake. She will change sides, if made to choose."

"Then let's not make her."

They will never know who dropped the match in the fuel, but by the time they get back from arguing, the two girls are already tangled on the floor, no longer distinguishable. There's a mess of blond hair, bandaged limbs struggling for dominance, and a total disregard for the past injuries. One of them is winning, but they're too occupied with separating the two to find out which.

Darting forward, the men break the scuffle. Claire stops kicking in Peter's arms. Glaring at her opponent, she wipes away some of the blood from her lips: bright red flowing, still flowing as they stand there. The fight is over.

"What was that about­–" Mohinder starts. So much of the peacemaking.

Ruffled and angry, Elle glares back, rubbing her wounded arm, and readjusts the sling. Neither is going to explain the incident.


After the scuffle, the tension has died out. Mohinder's low voice rumbles in the room and Claire closes her eyes, wishing to forget about the predicament of their situation. The Indian tea, always the authentic one, is cooling untouched in front of her. She's had enough burns for one day.

"I think we've found the inhibitor, Claire. Your immune system went into overdrive after coming into contact with the pathogen. The antibodies now react to the irregular genes, treating to their manifestation like a disease." Great. Even her body is fighting against her.

Peter squints, recalling just bits and pieces – autoimmune was not his specialty at the med school. But Suresh is not done with the explaining.

"The special genes are fully blocked, all their functions disabled. That's why Claire's blood won't clot and Elle is vulnerable to electricity."

There's no hiding that Mohinder is obviously excited about the whole discovery. Regardless of his enthusiasm, the whole talk about the endless possibilities of suppressing the dangerous gene mutations like Maya's has no effect on Peter. For all they know, it could become just another weapon.

All he wants is to find the cure.

-

Mohinder is hesitant to confirm this theory without further testing, but dares to make a conjecture that the regenerating abilities of Claire's blood before the infection might be able to reverse it. Just a portion for her and she will be able produce the rest.

"Save the cheerleader, save everyone else," Peter smirks dimly. He's already been there.

She knew it was a mistake to withhold her blood. They had been too busy saving Nathan, taking sides, fighting their invisible enemy, and he wouldn't let anyone take as much as a drop from her. Those ten samples could have saved her life and many others.

Peter asks, clearing his throat, "What about my blood? I absorbed Claire's ability." Mohinder just shakes his head, but he already knew it wouldn't do. Just like his blood wouldn't save his brother.

There's got to be another way. And there is.

Back in the streets, drifting through people with Claire close to him, he comes up with a plan.

"We need to find Hiro."


The place hasn't changed much since the last time. Same walls, same floor, first door to the left. People greet him and he doesn't know where he's met them.

"I'm here for Molly Walker."

The female officer double checks his ID, saying they are very careful with the witness protection program. "Just a second… " And it's all he can give. There's more than one life at stake.

He didn't see it coming. Parkman's fist hits the desk in an uncharacteristic burst of rage, sends papers flying off the pile. "What do you mean she's gone?"

The woman is taken aback by his behavior, nervously pushes up her glasses and checks the files again. It says that he already picked her up this afternoon. – "It can't be." The alarm was just an hour ago.

She looks up at him, equally surprised, and confirms the earlier statement. It's true: Matt Parkman came here earlier today and took the girl away for safety.

"Taken… where?" – "We have no information on that." But he's already gone.

He's too late. Just an hour too late. Curses echo in the elevator, floors blink in numbers, counting down to zero. He has lost her. The reflection morphs from the stout policeman back to Sylar's true form. He looks himself in the eye for the briefest moment.

Failed. Again.

On the ground floor, when the doors slide open an elderly man steps out.


Being kept in the dark – quite literally so – he's been given more questions than he has answers for. The ties are too tight and the blind on his eyes feels like a bandage. He swallows the terror, mouth impossibly dry. Hours pass by and the unseen interrogator is not returning. To shorten the time he's started naming the headaches: a concussion is worse than a hangover, worse than being slapped by a woman, but then again, raising from the dead surely beats everything.

A clank and a pair of hurried steps on the carpet. Cold fingers grope for his hands, a sharp blade and the bandage falls off easily.

"Stupid," a voice hisses through the darkness, but there's no menace behind it. "Why did you have to come? I'm risking everything for this."

Nathan smiles in the dark – he knows that voice. Rubbing the sore rings around his wrists he follows her to the light. Dressed in full black, Niki Sanders stares at him accusingly before she pulls him with her through the winding passage.

Breathless from the run, they both slump against opposite walls, listening to the guards run in the other direction. Then the silence.

He spends the empty minutes studying her closely. He's not sure what he was hoping to see. After the hosipitals and morgues, he wasn't expecting anything anymore. But she seems well enough, aside from the redness carefully hidden under the turtleneck and the long sleeves. Her face is tired, though, ghastly pale in the fluorescent lights, and the perspiration glimmers on her brow.

She certainly hasn't got better since the last time.

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"Why are you doing this?"

Opening her eyes, she brings bright blue into the general monochrome, wide awake and strangely distant. She doesn't expect him to understand.

Apparently, she's got herself involved in some kind of a shady deal that has her participating in a research in order to pay for the necessary treatment. That was her best offer. Until now.

"You must leave." He's got the cure, it'll be fine. She's free.

Niki remains reluctant, doesn't tell him why. Instead, a shaky hand runs through the flaxen hair. Nathan leans forward, aggravated, "You can't keep doing this, working from them, developing God knows what."

"It's not them," she rasps at him in the hallway, her head hitting the wall with a muted thud. Nathan looks at her, puzzled. She's right – he doesn't understand.

"What did you say?"

The woman pauses, taking a full breath. "I'm saying… it's not Bob or the Company."


To be continued…

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Notes: This update took much more time than any other (I think I went through the first minor block). But it was a central part of the plot and important to get it right for the upcoming episodes.

Plot details: Autoimmune. I'm not an expert on this subject, but as far as the Heroes universe goes, the limits of science are stretched, so to say. I suppose this condition is no more impossible than Nathan flying thanks to some lucky genes. However, if something seems really off the mark, feel free to inform me.

Candice's power. I read it from an Internet source that it has something to do with bending light rather than being a mental manipulation. So I guess it should work on video cameras as well.

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Chapter eight will be up in about four or five days, I hope.

There's a lot going on and more to follow. So, keep on reading and let me know what you think. Comments are always welcome!