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Chapter Nine

"Sodom and Gomorrah"

After traveling all night and taking turns driving, Peter, Sylar, and Claire finally saw a "Welcome to Nevada!" sign as they crossed the last border. Nothing but flat desert stretched for miles around them, the sunrise pouring on the dust and giving it a strawberry-banana hue. Needless to say, the migrating threesome was not only exhausted by the time they reached the outskirts of Las Vegas (a good few hours after even entering the state), but they were also ravenous.

Still on the backroads (if there were such things in acres and acres of nothingness), with help from Peter's "mental GPS," they found a rickety old diner on the beaten path; not abandoned, but likely just a treat for the locals. Jeremy and Jenny's may have not had the best health department rating, but at least they served food.

Inconspicuous was always good, at any rate.

Sylar, Peter, and Claire picked a round table right smack-dab in the middle, because the kids that take the back corners always give the appearance of being up to something. Again with staying inconspicuous.

So the trio acted their unshiftiest, breezily explaining to the curious waiters that they were a pair of brothers from Illinois taking their niece to see dear old Mom, or the girl's grandma. It was an easy enough fib, seeing as half of it had been true for a certain pie slice of Peter and Claire's life. And there was some sort of thrill to getting away with a totally bogus lie, as well.

"Have you told him about the schematics yet?" Claire directed the question at Peter, about Sylar. Sylar himself blinked, and that was answer enough.

"Er, no," Peter replied plainly, sitting up straighter in his seat.

"Schematics? Is that why we're going to Vegas?"

Peter nodded. "I think it's why that thing scarred me. I was attacked right after I found a manila folder full of these weird schematics and papers. Claire and I think they might be for something dangerous, especially if Linderman has something to do with it."

"What do you propose we do, then? Sneak in and steal them?"

Sylar's question came out with a chuckle, not even taking his own option seriously. But the glance exchanged between Peter and Claire was enough to tell him that his suspicions hit the nail on the head.

"I suppose I should have seen this coming," he said flatly.

Peter's brown eyes were full of plea. "It won't be as hard as it looks, I promise. And besides, I'll be the one going. You won't be in any danger."

Claire hadn't thought about that yet, but sincerely hoped that third time could be a charm for Peter. After all, the last two times he'd arrived back in Boston had been in screams of pain. Was it even possible for Peter to return from a mission in one piece?

Sylar didn't reply to Peter's claim, which he guessed was supposed to be a reassurement, though the thoughtful lines on his face gave away his dissatisfaction with the plan. Whether it was because of the jeopardy his brother would be putting his life in, or the fact that Sylar himself wouldn't have minded going out on a mission for once, Claire couldn't be certain.

They ordered simply, their cash flow cramping their stomachs more than the hunger could at the moment. Peter and Claire didn't even care that their waffles and sausage were cold, and Sylar ignored the stringiness in his South of the Border omelet. If it was digestible, it was delicious.

"I didn't know you liked omelets," Peter commented to Sylar after swallowing a mouthful of strawberries and waffle dough.

Sylar shrugged. "I've never had one before. It's fantastic, though. You want some?"

He stabbed a healthy sized piece full of egg, peppers, onions, and salsa, and held the tip of his fork out to Peter.

"Nah. Peter's allergic to onions," Claire responded before the man in question could, and for a second, she didn't even realize she'd said anything. Off the odd looks she got from both comrades, she thought back on it and pinkened slightly.

Sylar's eyebrows rose as he turned his gaze back to his brother. "You never mentioned that."

Peter looked down at his plate, eyes shifting between Claire and his waffles. "Never came up," he mumbled.

They stayed silent for a few minutes until the whistling waitress came over to deliver the check. Sylar took the black plastic tray from her hand, thanking her sheepishly. The waitress winked back and patted him on the shoulder fondly before sauntering off.

Peter's watchful sight followed her, noticing the whisper and giggle she gave to her friend, before she furtively looked over her shoulder at Sylar. The wiry man was totally in the dark, yet Peter noticed every sign.

"Do you know her?" he frowned, gesturing subtly at the young employee.

Sylar was oblivious. "What? No. I've never seen her before. At least in the past six years…"

He paused, and then seemed to wonder why this was so crucial.

"Why? What's the matter?"

Peter shifted in his seat. "She's acting like she digs you."

Sylar's brow knitted at the words that had never before been directed at him. "And?"

"I dunno. It's just weird."

"Why is that weird?" Claire asked sharply from his right. A mix of confusion, curiosity, and annoyance flashed on her pretty features.

"Women don't really like me, that's why," Sylar explained in a low murmur, suddenly looking at his omelet as though it was covered in goo. Claire's stare flitted back to Peter, and her eyes narrowed at his smug expression. The situation seemed to her to be a classic case of suggested reality. Women may have adored Sylar for all he knew, but Peter would always whisk them off before his poor brother even had a chance.

Peter only rubbed salt in the wound some more, snidely mentioning, "Sylar's never even been kissed, in this life at least."

Sylar looked up, glaring at the man across from him. "I could if I wanted," he retorted, now defensive. "But I'm too busy actually saving the world. Unlike you, who spends more time in bed then on the field!"

"What? Saving the world in front of a computer screen now, are you?" Peter hissed. He turned to Claire and sighed. "Claire, you're a woman. What do you think?"

Claire's head snapped towards him. "Um. Huh?"

Peter crossed his arms across his chest, and looked at her expectantly. "About Sylar. Do you think he has any chance with someone remotely female?"

Claire glanced back and forth from her hero to the villain that made Peter such a hero. Right now, that association was seriously warped. While Sylar had his head bowed in mortification, Peter leaned back haughtily in his chair, sure that Claire would agree.

The brunette girl cut her eyes at Peter and turned to Sylar, her expression growing warm.

"I think you have a chance with any woman," she beamed.

And with that, Claire reached across the table, touched his cheek, and pressed her lips against his.

Peter had to restrain his jaw from hitting the floor. She was supposed to agree with him, not go smooching his lovesick puppy of a brother! Did Claire even realize who she was kissing?! SYLAR! The man who killed her best friend!

He blinked, rubbed his eyelids, and prayed that it was just an awful nightmare.

Nope. As soon as he opened them, there it was. His two friends, totally lip-locked in one another, both having completely forgotten that he was even there. It wasn't a face-sucking fest or anything, luckily; closed mouth and all, but that didn't make it right.

Oh, for God's sake, what had he gotten himself into? Those green, "overprotective instincts" were really starting to flare up again. Yes, overprotectiveness. That's all it was. Someone was on his damsel, his cheerleader, his Claire, and he had a right to be a little pissed about it. Especially when he really didn't want to end up as her brother in law. God, would that be beyond sick and wrong.

But no one was shocked more then the waiters, on the other hand, who were more than a little appalled at seeing the young woman lean across the table and capture her "uncle" in a tender kiss on the lips.

Oh well. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

xxx

"What the hell was that?"

Claire abandoned playing with her fingernails to give Peter a blank stare. "Hmmm?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about!" Peter exploded, while trying to keep his voice down at the same time. It wasn't that important though; they were in the middle of an empty diner parking lot in the middle of the desert, waiting for Sylar to come back from the pay phone. The brother claimed he knew someone in Vegas that they could stay with.

"You KISSED HIM!"

Claire shrugged. "Yeah. And? It was just an innocent little kiss. Grow up, Peter, really,"

She started to open the driver's side door, but Peter slammed it shut with the palm of his hand, blocking her off.

"Innocent? It was with Sylar! Do you have any idea what you just did? Who he is?!"

"I know what I did," Claire replied coolly. "I made the guy that you were downing, your own brother, feel better. And now what? Sylar is all evil again? Wasn't it you that told me to pretend as if his past didn't happen, and that he's a good guy, and that I should be nice to him?"

"Not that nice!" Peter exclaimed, still blocking the door off. "I've lived with him for three years. Trust me; he wouldn't be good for you."

"I don't want to marry him, Peter; it was just a kiss! Maybe if you started making out with people for reasons other then lust, you'd understand," she snapped back scathingly, before overcoming his strength and ripping open the car door. Peter fumed, crossing to the other side of the car and attempting to open the passenger door. Claire pressed the "lock" button on her console, not even sparing him a look, but Peter overcame that obstacle with telekinesis. Within seconds, he slid into the passenger seat, still vehemently protesting.

Most of it went through Claire's ear, and out the other, except one thing in particular that got stuck in her hearing for days.

"How do you think this looks to me?" Peter said desperately, weariness wringing out his anger. "All I have is you and Sylar right now, and if you both leave for each other, I've got nothing."

Claire took a moment before finally locking eyes with him. "You're not gonna lose anything," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "You like to overreact, you know that? I told you, me and Sylar aren't like that."

Peter's eyes were downcast. "You should tell Sylar about that. I know my brother. He's gonna get the wrong message. You have to talk to him."

Speak of the devil. Before they could continue the most awkward conversation they'd had in ages, Sylar moseyed out the front door of the diner and over to the Versa. Peter didn't bother to climb into the backseat, and left that space for Sylar, not meeting his sibling's eyes as Sylar crawled into the car.

"Micah said that he and Niki can have us this week. They live about ten minutes away fro here."

The directions were for Claire, but Sylar spoke them to the fuzzy ceiling of the SRV. He couldn't look at her for fear of turning cherry red, feelings shooting from the soles of his feet to the top of his skull. Sylar'd felt love for sure, being around his kin and friends, but he'd never been remotely close to in love. Of course, looking back on it with hind sight, he would see that this infatuation was far from it, but sheer lack of experience with the subject warped his mind's perspective.

Besides, he barely knew the girl. Honestly.

"Which way do I go?" Claire hollered briskly. Not a line on her face showed any indication of what she'd done to him minutes before.

Sylar managed to croak out some basic instructions so fast his tongue nearly flew out before he curled up in the back, knees under his chin. Claire drove on in silence, with Peter's body in the passenger seat turned at a forty-five degree angle from hers. The man's eyes, irises colored like morning-old coffee, were narrowed in concentration as he watched dust swirl up and get swept under the van. Swept under the rug.

Maybe Niki Sanders would have a dustpan or two.

xxx

To say that Niki and Micah Sanders had lived a rough six years would be an understatement.

It wasn't Niki's direct fault; that she was able to admit to herself. No, the feds could gladly take the blame for the ankle bracelet on Micah's brown ankle, not her.

But even for a woman endowed with superhuman strength, she sure did feel like the most crushable person in orbit.

Once upon a time, when things were, in hindsight, less stressful, Niki would have wished for her estranged husband to go ahead and get cozy in his deathbed. Then, the world morphed, and when she needed DL more than anything…

Be careful what you wish for, she supposed.

It wasn't that she needed a man, necessarily. Niki had the looks and charm to get one, if she so required, and at the end of the day, she still loved her late husband. However, the true reason DL's death hit home so hard was because of Micah. The boy's father, his flesh and blood hero was gone.

Niki still had nightmares about the way her son's face crumbled when the found out the news.

On a particularly ordinary day, still brimming with the typical look-over-your-shoulders and close-your-blinds routine, Micah entered the kitchen looking rather atypical.

"Whatcha doing, sweetie?" Niki smiled brokenly as she washed dishes, having arrived at a particularly stubborn stain on a cereal bowl.

"My phone just rang. It was Sylar."

Niki's hand slipped in surprise, her own strength splitting the china into pieces. With a sigh of Not again…, Niki swept the ceramic into the trash can and finally answered her son.

"Why did Sy call you?"

"He's with Peter and Claire. Their house went under attack. They're here in Vegas to look for something, but Sylar was in a hurry and wouldn't say," Micah explained plainly. He was a no-nonsense sort of sixteen year old. Direct and to the point, but that's not to say he was a stick in the mud. Despite his hardships, Micah was one of the few that kept a happy outlook on life. A star next to a new moon.

"They need somewhere to stay, so I said they could crash here," the boy trailed off, a vague hopeful lilt laced his voice, and Niki groaned, slumping back against the counter.

"Micah! I love them, but you can't go inviting people into our home. We're in enough danger as it is."

Micah crossed his arms over his chest. "Mom, Peter saved your life. We owe them."

Niki groaned again, burying her sharply featured face in slender fingers. Dishwasher blonde hair curtained her palm-covered face, and she took a deep breath.

"Fine."

Her son rushed forward and threw his arms around Niki's neck. She chuckled slightly. Not too long ago, his reach slung around her hips. Now, Micah was nearly taller than her.

The doorbell interrupted them, and Niki pulled back.

"When did they call?" she asked shrilly.

"'Bout ten minutes ago," Micah replied offhandedly. "Can you get the door? I need to straighten the guest room. It's a biohazard in there."

He left the room before his mother could argue, and Niki found herself feeling another punch to the gut in the never ending boxing match that was her current life. Ten minutes. What ever happened to fashionably late?

Niki was greeted by friends at her door. Granted, she'd only met one of them in person on a few rare occasions, heard about one in passing, and talked to the other online, but these were still allies. She may not have liked Peter Petrelli particularly much off his bad vices, but she'd fight to the death to uphold what was important to him.

"Niki." Peter came forward and embraced her, pressing a warm kiss to her cheek before drawing back.

He'd changed since the last time she'd seen him. Not in age; Peter hadn't aged a day. Lucky boy.

Rather, the horrid scar that marred the left side of his face was notable, along with a gram of death in his brown eyes. When Niki'd met him, he was overflowing with pride, confidence, and the thrill of adventure. A few years later, and he looked pretty damn sick of it.

Claire rolled her eyes at the overly affectionate manner that Peter treated the woman with. Either he was trying to get some sort of immature revenge, or he actually respected the woman. And when she sat down and analyzed it like all scorned women do, she deuced that he probably wasn't pretending a thing. Niki had the aura of a damsel, but not a mistress.

Something told Claire that single mothers pushing forty weren't exactly Peter's type, as well. Niki was already seven years his senior. When the harsh crow's feet and bags under her eyes were thrown into the mix, along with Peter's everlasting youth, Niki could almost pass as his mother.

And why she was even worrying about something so petty was a growing problem that she fought again to ignore. Some more.

"Sylar!"

Niki's face lit up and she brushed past Peter, slipping her arms around Sylar's neck. The man hugged her back surprisingly comfortably, not used to getting physical with women tall enough to actually fit him. They'd never met in person, but they'd chatted online several times. Of course, she knew nothing of Sylar's secret hacks with Micah. Niki severely frowned-no, scowled- upon Micah using his power for any risky purposes. Sylar recalled this and guiltily averted his eyes when he was in Niki's blind spot.

"Come in," Niki said breathlessly, holding open her door and ushering them inside. Her door, much like Peter and Sylar's, was covered in locks.

When they were safely in the house, Niki turned to face them, leaning back against the shut door.

"So what are you doing here?"

The question was directed at Peter, and he didn't quite know what to say.

"It's about Linderman," he expounded bluntly, knowing full well that he'd just dug out his first shovelful of dirt on his work-in-progress grave.

"Oh God," Niki closed her eyes, disappointment and dislike beaming through blue eyes even when the irises were shielded by lids.

"Trust me," Peter held up his hands innocently. "It if it wasn't important, we wouldn't be here."

"Then what are you talking about? Linderman is dead," Niki shot back, the Jessica in her rearing it's head. "I watched DL kill him."

"It happened in the Corinthian," Sylar told her softly. "Linderman's gallery. It's where-,"

He stopped himself before he casually blurted out "where Peter got the scar." Now was not the time or place, nor was he the man to exposit such stories.

Niki looked at him expectantly before Peter interrupted, changing the subject.

"I stumbled across some really creepy stuff when I was there. A folder with drawings and algorithms for a machine on it. I never gave it much thought, but when I really started to consider what it could be, I can't stop thinking about it."

"A machine?" Niki parroted in disbelief.

"A reactor, a building, an invention, something." Peter waved his arms around, flustered. "But if someone associated with Linderman, whether the guy's dead or not, is involved with it…"

Niki padded over to him across the living room floor. "You've been watching Dateline too much, Peter."

"It's not in my head!" Peter yelled, as Micah walked into the room. He shot a confused look to Sylar and Claire, who stood long forgotten in the back of the room.

"If there's some sort of top secret invention that the Linderman's wanted that hard to protect, then it means something! And you knew Linderman; you know how he was…"

"Yeah, I do. I know that getting involved with him when it's not crucial is suicide!" She unclenched her fists and relaxed, winding up gazing upon Peter with a sympathetic glow.

"I know you want to save the world," she acknowledged gently. "But this isn't the way. Don't go near the Linderman group with a thirty foot pole unless you want to be trapped for life."

While this was happening, Micah subtly gestured for Sylar and Claire to follow him to the guest room, to sneak out when out when no one was looking. But no such luck could be obtained. As soon as the boy, the man, and the young woman so much as flinched to walk away, Peter and Niki's debate apparently came to cease fire.

"I have to do this," Peter said with a note of finality. "If I don't, and something devastating happens because I sit back and do nothing…I don't know how I'd live with myself."

He curved towards Micah, preparing to speak with her son.

"Wait!"

The three guys and a girl whipped their heads around towards the eldest person there. And as Niki walked over towards Claire, her eyesight only for the small framed young woman, Sylar and Peter saw fit to follow Micah down the mirrored hallway, leaving the women alone.

"You must be Claire." The blonde gave her a small smile, and brushed back the girl's hair. Claire would have normally been annoyed at such treatment from a near stranger, but Niki didn't feel strange, or weird. She felt like a mom; a mom that Claire hadn't seen in four years.

"Yeah," Claire nodded shyly. "How'd you know?"

Niki shrugged. "Peter mentioned you, and Sylar told me a few things too. Stuff that Peter would pass on to him."

Claire stood up straighter. "About me? What did he say?"

Discomfort washed over Niki's face. "Just old stories and stuff, but…I'm…not the one you should hear it from," she explained after hesitation.

Claire's face fell. "Oh. Well…it's okay. Everyone's entitled to their secrets, I guess," she said miserably.

"So," Claire began, now self-conscious. "What can you…do?"

The barcode on Niki's wrist left no doubt that the mother was a mutant.

"I'm really strong," she remarked. "Physically. And you can heal?"

Claire bobbed her head up and down ever so slightly in a universal "yes."

"See, I think evolution is trying to make women inherit the Earth," Niki stated, pseudo-seriously. "Because if you look at it, we girls have all the kick ass powers, but the boys have the girly, frilly ones."

Claire actually considered that, as much of a harsh generalization as it was. Peter could feel people, and Nathan could fly, yet she and Niki could battle a bunch of Spartans. The thought brought a giggle out of her, and Niki smiled genuinely too.

And recalling how a certain male hero was abusing his powers ever-so-carelessly in recent days, perhaps natural selection really was cutting Eve a break.

xxx

While the refugee trio set up as best they could in the guest room, Niki's room, and the den, Micah chose to escape to his own personal Batcave: the Internet.

Unfortunately, his cryptically coded blog post was interrupted by a knock on his door. Micah warily invited the person in, personally disappointed that it was Peter standing in his doorway. Sylar was his friend, and Claire seemed nice, but Peter had always been sort of looming and shifty to the boy. Not intimidating; few adults intimidated Micah Sanders. But from what he'd seen, Peter didn't seem like too great a guy.

Yet, allies were allies, and he still beckoned the older man in. Peter shut the door hastily and quietly, putting a finger to his lips as he kneeled down next to the teenager's rolling chair.

"I need your help, Micah."

Micah arched an eyebrow. "Does it have to do with my power?"

"Yes."

"Why can't you just copy it and do it yourself?"

The statement hadn't meant to come out sarcastically, but a tinge of Micah's resentment tweaked his voice. Peter looked at him tiredly, as if he'd been expecting such a question.

"Not this time," he expounded. "I'll be doing something else. But do you remember all those times you helped Sylar get live footage from security cameras?"

Micah nodded cautiously. "You need me to do that again?"

"Yeah. But you can do it from this house this time, since Sylar will already be here. So are you up for it?"

Micah was not an easily persuaded person.

"You're doing it aren't you? Going after Linderman when my mom told you not to."

Peter groaned and stood up from his kneeling position, running a hand guiltily over his hair.

"She's letting you stay here," Micah continued, awing himself at how powerfully he was sticking up for his mother. "You should play by her rules."

"Not…now," Peter firmly responded. "They took something very important from me to protect those papers, and I want to find out why, Micah. Please. We can't do this without you."

Micah's sight fell to the ugly red mark on Peter's cheek, and then shifted to the raw hope and desperation in the man's eyes. It was a touch act to refuse, even for the most stubborn kid in the world.

"What do you want me to do?" Micah sighed, not believing that he was actually going along with this BS.

"Thank you," Peter grinned in relief, grasping Micah by the shoulder gratefully. "For now, just do a scan of any emails, faxes, documents, all that stuff, to see if we can get a lead. I doubt the papers are still in the vault, so we need to find where they are again."

"Okay," Micah said, turning reluctantly back to his computer screen.

As Peter approached the door, Micah called out to him, stopping him in mid knob-turn.

"You can't tell Mom anything about this."

Peter humorously thought back to how he'd used the own phrase in his childhood, adding on the consequence "or I'd be grounded for life!" at the end. But his internal chipper went back into hibernation once again when he spotted the blinking ankle bracelet on Micah's leg.

"Don't worry. I won't."

He left the room before the guilt could suffocate him even more.

xxx

Elisa Thayer stared at the wall.

It was a nice wall, though plain. Off-white paint and black crown molding, circa turn of the century or so. Simplistically beautiful, all the ebony and ivory pigments shouting out at her.

Binary contrast, except for the splatter of maroon dried blood on the wall.

Only two agents made it out of the "Boston Massacre" alive, and that was barely alive to boot. They came limping into her office two days after their defeat, proclaiming that the suspects got away with the prisoner, who seemed to have developed a strong case of Stockholm Syndrome.

Oh yeah. And six other agents were dead, including their leader.

Now, Elisa was in Boston, staring at her best agent's DNA embedded into the paint. Agent Ferguson, her former partner. His corpse lay splayed onto the floor, pickpocketed and covered in blood.

"Son of a bitch," Eliza muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she looked around at the carnage. There would be no CSIs brought into investigate. Nathan ordered for this mission to remain silent as the grave, and as much as Thayer detested anything that came from that man's mouth, she still knew it was best.

Elisa now stood alone in a graveyard of twisted bodies, crushed skulls, and rivers of blood with deltas at her feet. Marcus and the man in front of him had bullet wounds to the head, and a young woman was stabbed, but everyone else had severe bodily trauma. A baseball bat soaked in ruby on the other side of the room could explain that.

But she felt no remorse. It had been a suicide mission all along. How could eight mortals fight the wrath of two gods and an unbreakable girl? Impossible.

Thayer only had one true goal in all of this. Claire was not important; they could find other things to hang over Nathan's head. Her indestructibility wasn't valuable either. They already had a waiting list of similar mutants in their computer system that would actually stay loyal.

That other male mutant that disarmed the crew of their weapons? Useless as well. The two survivors were fervent in pointing out that he would defend himself, but not attack. Why go after someone that wasn't a threat?

No, there was one thing that towered above all, that even through this dire moment of butchery and failure, brought a smile to Elisa Thayer's face as soon as she heard it.

Peter Petrelli was burned. Just like she'd thought he'd be.

Elisa groped for her cell phone, flipping up the top. A haunting beep echoed through the hollow chamber of death as she pressed "1" on the speed dial.

It rung four times before the call was answered. Elisa spoke first.

'Hi, mom."

xxx