Outside of the Bennet family home, Sylar stopped Peter from ringing the doorbell. "We just go in," he explained.

"There might be people here," Peter protested.

"School's out. There probably are." Sylar fidgeted in the mid-afternoon sun. His abilities had not come back full force yet, but they were present enough that he could use them with great concentration. At times, he could feel the numbness came with it, the mental fog that had driven him to be a hunter instead of a human being. He just wanted this over so he didn't have to deal with the temptation anymore.

"School? How do you know there are kids here?"

"We just go in," Sylar insisted, reaching past him for the doorknob.

Peter caught his forearm firmly. "Wait. You have been super tense since we landed. What's going on?"

Sylar hissed, pulling back and rolling his eyes. This was such a stupid time to have an argument. They would lose all benefit of surprise. He short-circuited it as best he could by simply blurting out the truth: "The cheerleader – the one I was after – is Bennet's daughter."

"Claire ..." Peter's eyes drifted to the side as he thought that through. "No wonder. That explains why he ..." Peter's brow furrowed and he looked back to Sylar. "No, it doesn't. If he did all that to you because you tried to kill her, then why did he do it to me, too? I tried to save her!"

"You did save her," Sylar pointed out. "And he still did it to you."

Peter shook his head, dismissing the whole mess of unfathomable motivations. "It doesn't matter. We're here for him, not her. We can just wait out here. He should be back soon." He regarded Sylar appraisingly. "Do you have this? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" But he knew what Peter was getting at. He wasn't fine and he was becoming increasingly not fine. "None of these people deserve their abilities," he snapped. "If she's here, then we kill her and move on!"

Peter drew back, brows furrowing. "Sylar? The only reason you found her was because she was using her ability to save people's lives. She's a hero! If anyone 'deserves' their ability it's someone like-" The door opened at that particular moment, reminding Sylar that in addition to being a stupid time for an argument, this was also a very stupid place for one. Claire Bennet looked out at them in puzzlement. Peter ended his sentence: "Her."

Claire's expression shifted to pleasant surprise as she recognized Peter. "You!" Then her eyes tracked to Sylar. She paled. Everything pleasant in her demeanor vanished. "You ..." Her voice was filled with dread now. She took a half step back, looking to Peter. "Why are you with …"

Sylar rolled his eyes again. The front porch remained a stupid time and place for this. "We're moving this inside," he informed Peter, extending his hand and making a gripping motion with his fingers. He concentrated on the standard Darth Vader Force choke. It was both theatrical and effective. Claire's mouth gaped and her hands scrabbled at her throat. Sylar walked forward, propelling her backwards, three feet beyond his fingers and an inch or two off the floor. Peter followed him in and shut the door behind them.

An older, feminine voice called out from the kitchen. "Claire? Who was at the door?"

Sylar dropped Claire to the floor, raising a threatening brow at her as she silently scrambled to her feet. This was the one he'd missed at the Odessa stadium. The hunger itched in his mind. Peter stepped up behind him and said in a low voice, "This wasn't the plan. I don't want to involve these people."

Sylar rolled his eyes. "'Let's wait outside' does not constitute a 'plan'," he answered just as quietly. "They're his family. They're already involved. They live with him. They like him. Some of them even fuck him." He looked at Peter with the intention of determining if this man was becoming a danger or liability. He looked at him and remembered how he'd looked the night before in the shower, how Peter had smiled to see him when he'd come back to take him where the arranged taxi was waiting for them, how Peter had set up Noah for retribution and Sylar had kissed Peter in front of him. This was not his enemy. The fog that was clouding his mind, making his options seem increasingly limited, lifted. He blinked at Peter. Sylar's face relaxed and he took a deep breath.

"I'll back you up," Peter murmured. "No matter what."

"Claire?" The possessor of the voice came out where she could see the entry. She looked between the two strange men standing together, then at her daughter, whose eyes were wide and face pale.

Claire took two quick steps closer to her mother and pointed back at Sylar in agitation. "Him! He's the one who killed Jackie!"

"Jackie?" the woman asked uncertainly. "Jackie fell." She glanced uneasily at Sylar and Peter as they stepped apart, giving them a brief, polite smile before looking back to Claire. "I know how much she meant to you, Claire, but you have to understand it was an accident – a terrible, terrible accident."

"It wasn't an accident!" Claire almost screamed at her mother. "I've been trying to tell you! At the stadium! I was attacked, by him, and he killed Jackie. Don't you remember it? The police? The blood on my cheerleading outfit? Any of it?"

"I-" The woman's mouth opened and then shut. She tried again. "I- I must have had a bad interaction with my medicine. I don't remember much from that night, but I-" She shook her head and gave Sylar and Peter another polite smile. "I'm afraid we skipped the introductions. My name is Sandra. You are?"

"Peter."

Sylar gave Peter a side-eye for being too eager to answer, but decided it was actually rather smart. As a common name, 'Peter' didn't incriminate him and yet it remained well mannered. Unlike, say, 'Sylar'. But he answered anyway, because he wanted the news to get back to Mr. Glasses. "Sylar."

"Lyle," said a younger male voice from inside the kitchen. Peter and Sylar looked in that direction, but whoever it was didn't come out where they could see him.

"He's having a sandwich," Sandra explained.

"Great," Peter said quietly. He looked uncomfortable.

"Is that everyone?" Sylar asked the mother bluntly.

Sandra's eyes narrowed. She didn't answer. Instead, Claire said slowly, "Are you two working together?"

Peter said, "We weren't working together at the stadium, but we are now."

"You have your father to thank for that," Sylar added.

"My father?" Claire said.

Peter moved where he had a better angle on the kitchen. Sandra took a step to the side, keeping herself between him and the voice Sylar presumed belonged to her son. Sylar said, "Yes. Your father and his people abducted the both of us after the adventure at the stadium, your savior here as well as myself," he said with a gesture at Peter. He glanced between Peter and Sandra, but let their minor posturing slide without interfering. He directed his comments to Claire, but everyone could hear him. "We were detained, drugged, and experimented on, then violated for the pleasure of your dear daddy, which is just as lewd and literal as your hormone-drenched teenage mind can no doubt imagine." He was snarling at the end of it, finding a deep satisfaction in calling out Noah Bennet for his crimes, and even more in seeing Claire's horror.

"What is he talking about?" Sandra hissed in outrage.

Claire pulled in a deep breath, then surprised everyone by barking a short, hollow laugh. "Maybe it's true," she said flippantly.

"What?" Her mother's disbelief was thick.

Claire said, "I have no idea what's true or not anymore. No one remembers what really happened at the stadium – how my best friend was murdered right in front of me, how this … Sylar … tried to kill me, too. Lyle doesn't even remember who won the game. Zach hardly knows me now." She rounded on her mother. "Last week I was nearly raped by that stupid quarterback – no, I might have been raped by him, I wouldn't know because I was dead, and I was dead because he threw me down and – Agh!" Claire threw her hands up dramatically. "No one knows! No one remembers! Brody doesn't even remember his name now! And all along, Dad knew. He knew about what I could do. He knew about the tapes. He knew about everything." She gave an exaggerated shrug and waved at Sylar. "So maybe he did all that, too. How would anyone know? No one knows anything!"

"Claire, you were not dead!" Sandra said with exasperation. "And as for all the rest of that hogwash-"

"I can prove it!" Claire cut in. She looked around the room, then stared at Sylar defiantly. She raised her hand to him, palm facing him. He shifted, eyes narrowed at the unexpected gesture. "Cut me. Just like you did to Jackie's head, but on my hand." When he hesitated, she sneered, "I know you can do it."

He snorted softly at the challenge.

"Claire?" Sandra said.

"Watch," Claire insisted.

Sylar raised his hand, one finger extended. He pointed it at her hand and flicked his finger to one side in a quick motion. Her palm sliced open like a knife had slashed her. She flinched, then spun and showed the gash to her mother, whose eyes widened almost comically. The cut vanished in seconds, though, leaving only a red stain of blood that vanished seconds after that.

"How … that ..." Her mother moved to her, taking her hand and looking perplexed.

A young teen boy stuck his head around the edge of the kitchen, a potato chip in one hand, and asked, "What'd I miss? Is something going on?"

"Go back to your sandwich," his mother said distantly. Reluctantly, Lyle did. She looked at Sylar. "You did that?" She motioned at Claire's hand.

"I can do worse," Sylar rumbled with dark promise.

"We came here for Noah Bennet," Peter interrupted before things went bad.

"He's why you can't remember anything," Claire told her mother.

"He drains memories?" Sylar asked.

Peter shook his head. "No. His friend does that. The one who can make people fall asleep. They literally forget to stay awake."

"I thought you said he drained vitality."

Peter shrugged. "Same thing."

Claire shook her head. "It doesn't matter. He has it done! He's done it to Mom. He's done it to Lyle. I don't know why he hasn't done it to me."

Sylar said, "You have the power of life. Perhaps it's too much vitality to be overcome that way."

"I don't believe any of this," Sandra said. "How…?"

"Would you believe it if you heard it from his own mouth?" Sylar asked.

"Noah's?" Sandra said. Sylar nodded. She said, "I … I guess so."

"He will be home soon, correct?" Sylar looked to Sandra, who hesitated, then nodded. The plastic flap of a doggie door to the back yard opened and a small fuzzball of a dog came through, nails clicking on the tile. Lyle left the kitchen to scoop the animal up, holding the dog protectively while studying the interactions of the people in the living room and foyer. Very slowly, he walked back out of sight into the other room. Sylar continued, "Go join 'Larry' or whoever in the kitchen-"

"Lyle!" the boy interjected, thus telling Sylar exactly where he was, even if he couldn't see him.

Sylar smiled humorlessly and went on, "And let Peter and I confront your husband alone. He'll tell you everything you need to hear."