A/N: Wheee a long chapter!!!! This one was more fun to write. Have I mentioned before that I love writing Noah Bennett? I might've, but it needed to be said again for emphasis. His time is too short, but fun nonetheless. Anyhoo, this chapter is all about chaos - let it ensue!!!!
I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D
10) Stealing Things
*** some time later ***
Noah Bennett rued the day he ever adopted a girl. Despite the initial implications surrounding the events that had left her "orphaned", taking the sweet, fuzzy, pink little bundle into his arms had been easy. More than easy, it had felt almost predestined - it was right. Her youth had been a joyous toy box of My Little Ponies and Malibu Barbies and fashion shows with cardboard box runways and teddy bear audiences. He could close his eyes and still taste the pretend-tea trickling down his throat, slipping around the aching knot of nostalgia. Her teenage years, while providing him with an education he wasn't sure he really wanted, had changed them both and brought them closer simultaneously, and while they were hard they were nothing he'd ever trade. But as he stood and gaped at the pile of receipts in his hands - happy little pieces of glossy paper with happy little logos and happy little "Have a Nice Day"'s and happy little evil freakin' dollar signs - he absolutely loathed himself for ever thinking it would be a good idea to adopt a woman. Nothing on Earth could be so gut wrenchingly heinous as paying this much money... just to say goodbye to her.
"Honey!" he called to Sandra, who was in the kitchen preparing homemade butter cream molded mints. "What's an 'Ikebana' and why do we have one?" He wasn't even sure he pronounced it correctly. Sandra ignored the question - he suspected he didn't really want to know the answer anyway - and scuttled into the room to shove a spoon in his face.
"Taste this, what do you think?"
It was heavenly. He could've eaten the whole bowl if their current financial situation hadn't already robbed him of his appetite.
"Tastes expensive," he murmured.
"Oh Noah," she groaned, landing the kind of kiss on his forehead that would cure all ill before making her way back to her task.
It wasn't the cost of the wedding that was really bothering him, though. Craig's parents were lovely people and the last time they'd all sat down to dinner together they'd worked out a truly harmonious budget balanced between them. The open checkbook ledger before him - he was on his 4th run-through - was meant to be a distraction from the real concern. He distinctly remembered Claire recounting a tale of mechanized flying chasers, seemingly invincible, performing the jobs of black-suited men. It wasn't hard to imagine that, at a rather sybaritic and public social gathering that included a somewhat large concentration of people with highly sought after abilities, they wouldn't make an appearance. He'd tried to convince Claire that a wedding was a bad idea but when dinner with the Daltons had occurred he'd discovered that Sandra and Mrs. Connie Dalton had other plans that didn't include paying much credence to his opinions. He knew that, inside, his daughter secretly wished for the wedding - like anything else that made her feel ordinary - regardless of the fact she'd agreed with him. She had even made mention to Sandra that she thought a small, private ceremony on the beach would be... charming, had she called it? The hint had been ignored, however, and Claire didn't push the issue too awful hard.
Therefore, Noah resolved to consider his contribution, aside from a large portion of the financials, a vastly improved line of defense over what was traditionally considered for a big church wedding in Texas. Closing the checkbook he retreated to his study where he pulled out the detailed notes he'd made the last time he'd visited the church. He reviewed the locations of the exits, the allowed population capacity per the fire code, the distance in meters from the middle of the room to the nearest exit, the number of windows and the types of panes that comprised them, the presence of underground chambers, the distance – again, in meters – from the exits to the highway, how long it would take to reach help from the outside world, and so on. He felt fortunate that if the wedding was going to take place at all it was going to be in Texas where it wasn't so unusual (in fact, it was downright socially acceptable) to see a significant number of shotguns in a church.
~*~*~
The head detective was staring out of his Washington D.C. window taking a mental inventory of evidence on a case when a knock captured his attention. It was a clerk from the mailroom downstairs delivering an important package. As he ducked out of the office to continue his appointed rounds the detective retrieved the large tan envelope from his inbox. He peeled it open and inspected its contents - DNA evidence from the crime scene in Albany, NY. At last.
As he'd suspected the perpetrator had in fact been positively identified as Gabriel Grey, who operated under the known alias "Sylar". There had been too much blood on the walls to refute the accusation that he'd been anyone else. But there had been someone else - the victim, Brandy Harris, had called her Claire, as had Dominic Jones in Boston. He believed this enigmatic "Claire" was a vigilante and now he would have a face, surname, prints, and a record to go with that nom de guerre.
Her name was Claire Bennett (although she, too, had briefly used an assumed last name in high school - something the detective found to be highly suspicious of her character) and she was a recent graduate of a midwestern university. Her last mailing address was listed as a rural home outside of Odessa, TX – presumably her parents'. He decided it might be worthwhile to pay them a visit to make an inquiry regarding her whereabouts. It seemed that if he could find her, he could find Sylar. He also decided it would be a good idea to assemble a team and contact the local authorities in Odessa - too many times her trail had been painted in blood; it was best to consider her dangerous regardless of her innocent if not truly ordinary detail.
While filing the documents with the rest of the paperwork on the case he removed two objects to have another look - a photograph and a handwritten note, both of which he'd created. The photo depicted an area on the wall where the blood had been smeared. Since the bloody posts didn't quite line up with the window that had provided the suspects' escape he didn't believe the smear had been made in that process. Also, forensics had found that the gooey, gelatinous quality of the smear determined that it had been made some time after the blood had started to dry – the smear occurred later, after the crime, after the escape. The smear was unexplainable, but did manage to tell him one thing – someone had tampered with his crime scene, before they had arrived to investigate it.
It appeared he wasn't the only one searching for Sylar.
~*~*~
It was an absolutely stunning day. The sky was putting forward its finest azure face having been wiped clean of any lingering clouds. Birdsong was jubilant in the air and the lavish flower arrangements decorating the grounds were enshrouding the area with a heady pleasant aroma. Claire had insisted that, regardless of the fact the ceremony was taking place at a church, the event would be conducted outdoors on the church lawn. The weather was just too dang nice this time of year to be cooped up indoors.
She was standing in front of a cathedral-style window that stretched from the floor to the ceiling in a room upstairs devoted to bible study. Her entire not-inconsiderable beauty routine having been completed, she warmed herself in the sun and took a few moments of quiet calm to dissuade any second thoughts. She watched the busy lawn as the caterers arrived, filing their gilded trays in through the double doors of the church, and on a dais off to the side of the congregation a small orchestra (compliments of Angela Petrelli's estate) was warming up. Some guests had arrived early and were milling around socializing. The general atmosphere was soaked with contentment – nothing could spoil this perfect day.
Taking a few steps to her right to get a better view of the growing crowd and letting her fingers stray absentmindedly to touch a nearby table, she bumped her freshly manicured nails into the objects that were resting on its surface. Smiling with recognition, she picked up the old book of poetry she'd received from her father earlier – pretty things he said would help keep the spark alive. She thumbed through it without absorbing any words then set it down next to the little box that had once held sapphire earrings from her brother – the ones that currently adorned her earlobes. "Something new" had been from her mother and was hanging from her neck – a locket intended to carry memories with her forever. Heh, forever. Sandra had always been so insightful. A bridesmaid – a close friend she'd made in college – claimed to have something borrowed. She suspected it was a pair of sexy boots she hadn't seen since a night out with the girls several years ago, but before she could discover the nature of the gift the girl had run off with Molly, her maid of honor, to help Sandra wrestle the cake out of the delivery vehicle. She hoped they were gentle.
She had slipped into her dress – a strapless gown with a long, gathered skirt that reminded her of thunderheads billowing before a storm – and was clutching it around her breasts while she waited for her mother to finish rescuing the towered confection and come help her fasten it. As if on cue, Sandra stepped through the door.
"That was quick – thought the cake would be an ordeal."
"Well, it's under control. Need some help with that?"
"Would love some."
"You know, this is a mother's dream come true," Sandra cooed, lovingly lifting Claire's hair and draping it over her shoulder. She began to lace the ribbons up the back… a little too tight. "I'm gonna try not to cry."
The smile fell from Claire's face as she felt herself immobilize, frozen in place.
Sandra strode to the table near the window.
"Let's see… something old for sure," she picked up the book then set it down, "and a little box… something new or something blue? Or both? You don't have anything borrowed yet?"
"I'm currently borrowing a sense of humor," she grunted through gritted teeth.
Head tilted slightly, Sandra breathed a small laugh that wasn't quite her beforeshe returned to her original position behind her daughter, letting her form change into the smirking visage of a smugly celebrating Sylar. He smoothed his hands down her sides as he leaned a cheek against her head – she could feel his breath tickle her left shoulder.
"I didn't get an invitation, Claire."
"Couldn't imagine why…"
"I have something for you. Something borrowed." She felt a collar – the same one she'd left with him after their last meeting – snap around her neck. The conversation they'd had at the time had turned out less than pleasant for him – for the first time in a long while she was truly frightened of what he might do.
"Look, you can do whatever you want to me, but if one drop of blood gets on this dress I swear -"
The ribbon yanked itself free and her dress fell to the floor around her ankles. Claire flew from where she stood to become plastered against the far wall. Sylar closed the distance between them, presumably to gloat, but quickly glanced away and swallowed thickly. It was too much to hope for that she wouldn't notice.
"Oh my god, are you serious? Seriously? You choose now to get all timid about a topless girl?"
He met her eyes and frowned darkly. He really hated her sometimes. "You saw mine in a missile silo in Podunk, Oklahoma – it's only fair I see yours… in a church no less," he said while using a finger to cut a small slice just beneath her left collarbone, one that didn't heal and stung deliciously.
Claire couldn't help herself. She closed her eyes, parted her lips, and let escape a small sigh of ecstasy, her nipples incapable of hiding her reaction. Sylar fought the feverish and involuntary flare of arousal, jerking back his hand. He'd forgotten how badly she craved pain, like a recovering alcoholic craves whiskey. The part of him that was intent on her suffering wanted to stop and brainstorm a different method, but the typical man in him wanted to see if he could get her off before she walked down the aisle to meet her husband-to-be. Who was he kidding. The "Gabriel" in him truly was timid around half-naked girls – for all his fearsome bravado he spent most of his life locked in a shell that had left him somewhat… inexperienced. Rather than draw attention to that fact, he withdrew.
"You're making a huge mis-"
He was interrupted when the door crept open, admitting entrance to the real Sandra who screamed immediately at the sight of her topless and bleeding daughter telekinetically pinned in place by her family's greatest mortal enemy. Sylar dropped his head into his hand and slammed the door shut behind Sandra before flinging her against it.
"This is not what it looks like," he groaned. "You see, yer daughter -"
A phone started ringing. He cleared his throat. He continued.
"Your daughter…"
It kept ringing. Claire and Sandra glanced at each other. Sylar pinched his nose in irritation.
"Oh, for shit's sake, gimme the damn phone!"
He allowed Sandra the use of one arm which she jammed into a pocket, retrieving her silver flip phone. It's shrill singing stopped when it zipped through the air to land in the palm of Sylar's hand where he snapped it open with an annoyed flick. Using his shapeshifting ability to mimic Sandra's voice, he answered.
"Noah? Mmmhmm? Yes, I see. Well, she can't come down to visit with them, Noah, she's not decent."
"What's going on?" Claire called from over his shoulder. A finger silenced her.
"Have you tried explaining to them that this is a wedding? They're just gonna have to wait. Yes, I realize that. Well, lemme get her dressed then I'll come down and get them. I'll be down in a minute, bye."
He approached Sandra and slipped the phone back in her pocket.
"Mrs. Bennett, the FBI have showed up hoping to apprehend your daughter for questioning, I assume with regard to her association with me and the crime scenes we've been creating."
"We?!?"
He placed a hand on Sandra's shoulder. "What I need you to do is lace up your daughter's dress then go down there and stall them. I'm trusting you'll do this because I don't think you want them snatching her up on her wedding day any more than I do."
Sandra's face was lined with angry dignity as she nodded her acquiescence. Sylar released his hold on both the women but remained by the door to prevent any comings or goings – accidental or otherwise. Justifying his cause, there was a turn of the doorknob followed by a meek knock. Molly.
"Claire? We're back – can you let us in?"
"Give us a bit, Molly," Sandra announced, forcing the nervous waver out of her voice, scowling at Sylar as she spoke, "she's naked in here, gettin' her dressed. We'll be done in a minute." Sylar rewarded her with a menacing chuckle.
Claire pulled the gown back over her body while her mother fished in her purse for a tissue.
"Mrs. Bennett -"
"We are NOT getting blood on this dress." Claire agreed with her mother's retort by flashing him a stern glare.
"Whatever, just hurry up."
After Sandra had dabbed the red mess clean she handed Claire a wad of tissues with instructions to put pressure on the wound until it stopped bleeding. She noticed, for the first time, that above the chain of her daughter's new locket sat a different object – what appeared to be a collar. It had small lights that blinked as if it were performing a task. She reached to curiously graze a hand over it.
"Don't touch that. Mrs. Bennett, I don't wanna break your fingers. They won't heal quite like hers would."
"Leave her alone," Claire warned. "We both know this is between you and me."
"It was until she walked in. Now it's between you and me and her."
"You made a promise."
He rolled his eyes.
"I know…"
Sandra didn't ask what she meant by that. She hastily stepped behind her daughter and laced up the back of her dress. When she was finished, she turned to Sylar, raised her hands in surrender, and said, "I'm ready." He moved aside, swung the door open and chivalrously bowed toward her exit, then allowed her to gracefully slip from the room.
"She's going to tell the police you're up here," Claire said once she was gone. She had pressed her face up against the window to see a full cadre of armed and uniformed officers of various jurisdictions prowling the grounds below. Closing her eyes, she ran a hand down the glass. "I can't believe this is happening, I just wanted one freakin' day. But NO. No way. My wedding," she turned to look at him when she enunciated the word, "has just got to be crashed… by the flippin' FBI of all things. And you."
"And me. You know I have no intention of being here when they arrive," he stated as he yanked her about by the elbow, shoved his left shoulder into her stomach, and lifted her high.
"WHAT THE FU -"
He telekinetically shut down her vocal chords as he shifted her weight and his features rippled into the form of Craig Dalton.
"Hush, now – you're not getting kidnapped, you're just getting eloped," he teased as he made a run for it.
~*~*~
Five miles down the road from Caprock Baptist Church sat two large white vans. The black-suited gentlemen who occupied them finally emerged after a long interval of inactivity. The signal had been given. They opened the rear doors of both vehicles to allow what appeared to be roughly two dozen toy spacecraft to hover free, humming as they lined up to receive their programming. Their four shadowy caretakers moved amongst them with handheld devices that hooked up to and provided the machines the capability to synchronize with the satellite in orbit.
Miles above the ground a severe-looking blonde woman, who answered to the name Dr. Judy Rogers, inspected lines of code over the shoulder of a white-coated assistant. It wasn't every day that a large concentration of names on her list showed up in the same location – one that auspiciously happened to be in the middle of nowhere – and one of those names happened to belong to the individual she considered to be the key to her whole operation.
She straightened, happy with the orders that were being directed to her drones. She hoped their number was sufficient – their manufacture was slow and costly, and the rogue drone Sylar had unleashed upon her last prototypes had decimated some of her already conservative numbers. The loss of machines, however, was still preferable to the loss of more men.
She laid her hand on the assistant's shoulder who looked up at her, waiting for further instruction. Dr. Rogers merely nodded – it was time to begin. The assistant relayed the information to the men in the white vans on the ground who then returned to their vehicles and allowed the drones to commence their assault.
~*~*~
Noah could tell by the way Sandra was walking a bit too quickly, with strides that were larger than she normally took, that she was stressed. Her brow was furrowed, her fists were clenched, her chest was heaving. Either she was really angry at the FBI, or something was wrong. The agents accompanying him turned at her approach.
"It's not my daughter you're after, it's Sylar," she panted. "He's got her upstairs, I suggest you hurry."
"That can't be," said Lyle as he joined them after having escorted a pair of guests to their seats. "I just saw Craig take off with her, thought they were headed down to the creek to fool around before pictures."
"I did what?" Craig asked as he joined them from behind, sipping a glass of lemonade.
As they stood staring at each other, a strange low hum started to cross the lawn.
~*~*~
They'd reached a creek and he'd set her down by a tree. She was frozen in place on her feet, but her eyes followed him, lasers burning holes into his flesh. She reminded him of a hornet's nest trapped in a jar. Not to be one to claim he never took his punishment, he released his hold on her voice.
"Sylar, I really really really hope you've drug me all the way out here to tell me you're reconsidering my offer."
He grimaced. To hide his reticence, he turned from her, picked up a stone, and skipped it across the water.
"I'm afraid we're at an impasse on that one, Claire. I'm here to keep you from making a huge mistake."
"A mistake? You think marrying the man I love and moving on with my life is a mistake? To say something's not right with you has always been an understatement, but this time it's sunk to an all new low…"
"You're immortal, Claire -"
"Yeah, I picked up on that -"
"- and he's not. Mortals don't understand us. You even told me yourself, and I quote, 'they move quickly.' We don't. We don't move at all. You think you're moving on? Where will you be when he's gone? Right back where you were. He won't understand that."
"You know what? I get it. I know what this is all about. You're still pissed because I made you cry."
His shoulders reached his ears and he wanted to close off her throat again… with his fist.
"Oh for crying out fucking loud," he growled, "no, no I'm not mad – and can we not talk about that by the way? Ever? No. Mortals, they move forward, they get over things." He turned to face her. "We don't. When everyone and everything starts to die around you, Claire, if you start letting go of things, what will you have left? Mortals, like him, they're defined by their future, where they're going, but we're defined by where we've been. We are the sum of our past. Fifty years from now when he looks like he's bangin' his great-granddaughter he's not gonna get that."
"Why do you care? That's not a reason to crash my wedding and kidnap me. I know you too well to believe for one second you're out here saving me from myself or whatever out of the kindness of your own twisted freakin' heart. You are definitely pissed at me and you definitely wanna see me suffer, so let's just get on with it already and -"
She was interrupted by the sounds of screams and gunshots from over the hill. In three giant strides Sylar was next to her, a hand tentatively resting on her left elbow. More shots were fired and their eyes met.
"What the hell's going on back there? Oh my God, Craig! Sylar, I have to get back!"
"Like hell you are! You don't want any blood on this dress, remember?!?" he sneered.
"I can't just leave him there!!!"
"And what exactly do you think you're gonna do for him?!?" She had no answer for that.
"What on earth would make the FBI just open fire at a wedd -"
The hand he held up silenced her. A familiar buzzing hum crept to their ears. They both paled. There were flying machines. Flying machines were terrorizing her guests, the authorities were spraying the church lawn with bullets, and the bride had been kidnapped by a super-powered serial killer. What a complete cluster.
"Claire, your dress is gonna get dirty."
She was gasping with a mixture of anger and fright. "I'm not armed…"
"It won't matter, remember? And we can't exactly get underground. I can stall them but you've got to run."
"What about you? I can't let them get you."
He stared at her, agape, eyes wide with disbelief and confusion. "You, uh," he suddenly felt very weird, "you don't have to worry -"
"If they get you and figure out how your ability works it'll doom the rest of us. More than that, I really think these people can screw up the world."
"Right…"
"It kills me to admit it so it must be true. Right now you might be the most important person on earth. You need protection way more than I do so you might as well come with me."
He stared at his feet and raked a hand through his hair, allowing her to move her body.
"Gimme your shirt," she demanded.
"Huh?"
She had already kicked off her shoes and was pulling at the lacings behind her in a manner which made him cringe with discomfort.
"This thing will only slow me down."
Understanding, he stripped out of the shirt and turned from her, handing it behind him, allowing her some modesty as she stepped away from the pile of white fabric on the ground. She shook her head at him as she accepted the t-shirt.
"You kill me, you know that?"
"Claire, I could spend hours dissecting the irony of that statement."
Scowling as she pulled the garment over her head, she took a moment to appreciate the smooth musculature of his back and shoulders and noticed a scar, low and close to his spine. Apparently getting impaled by a Japanese sword had left a mark. Feeling not quite decent in nothing but a t-shirt and her underwear, she tapped at his elbow.
"Let's go."
~*~*~
"Slow down, Lurch," Claire called, "yer legs are twice the length of mine and I don't have any shoes! These rocks are freakin' killer…" She windmilled her arms to keep her balance as she stepped on something that moved.
"Didn't think it'd take you long to remember pain isn't exactly orgasmic," he tossed over his shoulder as he sloshed down the creek bed. His reply earned him a mud pie between the shoulder blades.
"Slow down!"
He stopped. "Claire, may I remind you – oh shit! Quick – this way!!!"
"What?!?"
He didn't take the time to answer her. He reached back and snatched her hand, yanking her forward and almost toppling her face-first into the water.
"What the hell!"
"Be quiet!"
He dragged her painfully up an embankment into some brush. He clutched her close to him, breathing hard, while the branches around her tugged at her hair and dug into her skin. She watched a small cut on his shoulder slowly disappear. All the hours spent on her hair and her makeup and her nails…
"What's going on?" she whispered.
"Shhh…"
She heard the baleful hum shortly before she saw its hull gleam alarmingly in the sunlight as it crossed into the air above the creek bed. It paused, scanned the area, and moved off.
"It's gone."
"It'll be back. They're tracking us on spectral analysis. Because we're genetically different from normal humans our composition turns up different results when we're analyzed – it's the same technology they use to discover other planets that have water."
"That's great, but -"
"I know the signal they're receiving from the satellite has trouble penetrating underground, but I also suspect they don't perform well in dark conditions"
"Like, how dark?"
"Like that dark." He pointed downstream to a small cave mouth in the embankment. "Technically, it's also underground."
"You think we can make it there without getting noticed?"
"It's a better gamble than trying to make it out here on open ground."
Claire eased out of the brush behind him, sliding down the embankment on her behind. When her feet touched the water she felt the air crackle around her. Sylar was walking slowly and turning wide circles, his fingertips splayed before him throwing sparks, and his eyes scouring their surroundings for movement.
"You're gonna electrocute both of us," she groaned and rolled her eyes.
"No I'm not."
"Yeah, okay, just me then. You know we tried lightning last time…"
"I know, but I'm hoping my reflexes'll be fast enough to -"
Claire felt a puff like a moth against her cheek. Sylar darted out a hand and a big blue flare like a giant bug zapper threw shrapnel in all directions.
"What the hell was th-"
"Run!"
An invisible force pushed her forwards. She lost her footing on the slippery rocks but somehow managed to propel herself onward. She could hear Sylar's heavy booted footsteps splashing behind her as well as the dim whirring of the small craft's turbines holding it aloft as it pushed turbulent ripples across the water. It was closing fast. She heard a grunt and turned, her hair whipping out of her eyes in time to see Sylar crash to one knee, a dart sticking out of the back of his left thigh.
"Keep going!!!" he yelled. They were so close. She did the only thing she could think of – she took up a large scoop of water and flung it at Sylar and the flying machine. Part of her hoped that the cold water would shock him, help keep him awake until they reached the cave mouth. While she was temporarily successful, the drone also stalled in its trajectory and faltered to its left in what appeared to be momentary confusion. Apparently the water, with its ability to refract light (not to mention stream water also had a nasty habit of carrying loads of sticky particulates) had managed to fool its sensors. Wasting no time, Claire dug her fingernails into Sylar's arm and dragged him after her, pulling with every ounce of strength she had in her slight frame to get him past the opening in the earth, and tucked back into the damp musty darkness.
Panting and cold, she did everything she could not to think about the spiders and snakes that were very likely occupying her space. She curled up and watched as the drone hovered just outside the cave, its mechanical eye unable to penetrate the darkness and it dared not enter – it had lost them. Even though she knew it didn't have ears, she stilled her breath, swallowed several times, and kept as quiet as she could. Once the machine moved on, the only thing she could hear was Sylar breathing, curled up and asleep face down in the mud. Knowing the thing would continue to search the area and that it very likely wasn't alone, she settled in for a long wait.
~*~*~
The smothering darkness of the cave had somehow grown gradually thicker and more suffocating – Claire suspected the sun was setting outside. What was happening back at the church? Did the black-suits capture anyone? Did anyone get shot? Did Craig belong to either of those categories? She did her best to picture him zipping through the craggy Texas wilderness at top speed looking for her – never tiring, never stopping. That was the Craig she knew. The image of him as she'd first met him, however – in a sickeningly sterile white holding cell irradiated in false light - wouldn't leave her. They'd caught him once… She needed a distraction. She nudged Sylar's head with her toe – why wouldn't he wake up? She nudged a little harder.
Horrendous childhood trauma notwithstanding, this man had crashed her wedding. He'd collared her, stripped her, cut her, and had every intention of torturing her out of revenge for making him feel things he didn't want to. He wanted her to feel just as miserable as he had. And then, his next intention was to forcibly remove her out of some selfish and twisted sense of propriety – and he wasn't taking no for an answer. Like a child stealing back his favorite toy. Beyond that, this man had killed family and friends and countless other strangers that had the potential to be either one. If he didn't adhere to his perverted sense of integrity and honor so strictly she knew that there were several others who'd also be dead right now. Perhaps he needed a bit more than a toe nudge.
She thwapped him on the head with her knuckles. Unsuccessful, she slapped him across his cheek open-handedly. Rubbing the sting out of her palm while he did nothing more than twitch, she decided to try the one thing she knew all men universally hated. She angled her body for more proper leverage and sunk her foot deep into his groin. That got his attention. He recoiled immediately, bowing his spine and drawing in on himself, coughing to the point she thought he might throw up. She didn't care, awake or not, she was on a roll. She was a flurry of fists, landing them across his ribs and shoulders, a couple to the kidneys, and a couple really good ones to the back of his head – ones that popped her knuckles and made them bleed.
"YOU ASSHOLE!!! YOU KIDNAPPED ME FROM MY OWN DAMN WEDDING!!! DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT TOOK JUST TO PUT ALL THAT TOGETHER?!?!?!"
This time she wasn't surprised as she was slammed against the earthen wall of the cave. He didn't say anything to her immediately, just rocked on his elbows and knees, gasping with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. She barked a harsh laugh of victory.
"I just think it's funny how you're always coming to torture me and somehow you're the one who always ends up hurt."
He glared up at her, rising to his knees while he pushed himself to meet her. He placed a hand on either side of her head and leaned in close, eyes brandishing their own light in the darkness – they were furious.
"Says the girl in the collar," he leered. Claire shrieked as the skin above her eyebrows started to peel away, trickling warm, sticky blood into her eyes. "Maybe I ought to have a second look in there, figure out how you did away with all that pesky pain."
"It's not worth it!" she yelped. "Only feel… half alive.."
"Says you…"
She screamed with agony and began to pale. Her eyes rolled back, and this time not out of condescension. Soon she'd lose consciousness, either from shock or blood loss. And then she'd be gone. He'd be alone.
"You can't keep doing this forever," she hissed through clenched teeth. "What's it all for?"
He didn't have to lose her, he could take her collar off. He could take one more look inside her, see what he missed, what he'd changed… Living without pain would be so advantageous. No one would ever hurt him again. Black-suits and lab coats could pump him full of whatever they wanted – he would be unstoppable. Her head lolled forward dripping blood onto her feet and down her legs.
"You're just a little boy, stealing things," she whispered, "to become special enough so someone will love him…"
He was already alone. She was getting married, she belonged to someone else, she wasn't his. Everything he'd told her was bullshit – she was moving forward, and she was letting go. But he could hear the synapses firing in her brain, could smell the hormones and chemicals. The waves of electricity that danced along her neurons were enchanting and his fingers ached to trace them, to learn their last hidden secret, to listen to their distant siren call. She used her remaining strength to lift her head, her eyes peering into his soul in the darkness, tears diluting the red stains on her cheeks.
"Just take the collar off and I'll give it to you."
She would share herself with him. And for a split second, her face transformed. It was just the flash of an image – one of a raven-haired beauty with a graceful dimpled smile – it was the last person to truly share her humanity with him and a face he hadn't seen in over two decades. One he thought he'd never see again, one he'd forgotten. And as quickly as she'd come she'd disappeared. He was frozen in place, feeling as if he'd been punched in the stomach, suppressing an irrational urge to sob. This was all wrong. Snapping back to reality, he jammed his hand into his pocket and retrieved the tool that would remove her collar. He forced his hands to stop shaking as he freed her. He jerked away from her, falling back against the far wall, as her body crumpled. He could still smell her blood, he still hungered for her badly enough his skin was crawling and he wanted to rip it off, wanted to gouge out his own eyeballs, wanted to scream until he had no breath left in his lungs. He crawled away to the mouth of the cave where there was fresh air and he curled in on himself, yanking at his hair out of withdrawal.
"I'm here, I'm okay. Take it," he heard her say. He didn't dare move. After a pause, she continued. "You know, I meant what I said. You can't keep doing this, building this arsenal of abilities. What are you really using it for?" He wished she'd stop, but he knew by now she'd stop when she was damn good and ready. And she was never damn good and ready when he was damn good and ready. "A generation from now, everyone who's ever heard of you will be gone, and a generation after that you'll be completely forgotten. You gonna spend eternity just starting over all the time? Is that what you'd call 'being defined by our past'? Face it – you're just as stuck as me. Stagnant. The only difference is that you wanted this."
She sat and watched him. He raked his fingers down his shoulders and arms creating giant slices in their wake that healed before the next pass. His breath was ragged and his skin had become clammy and sweaty. He looked awful.
"Look, the collar's off, you're not gonna hurt me now, so you can just -"
"I'm trapped Claire!" he cried. "I… I don't know how to escape this! I can't do it!"
So, this was hunger. Inherited from his father, fueled by grief and rage. Moving forward, she stepped on the collar. Feeling around in the mud she also found its corresponding tool. Cautiously she approached him.
"Look at me." When he didn't comply, she sat beside him. She gave him a few moments to collect himself and waited until he finally turned his face to her, shadowed by mournful moonlight.
"Why have you never tried to kill me?" he asked.
"Because as much as you'd like to believe we're cut from the same cloth, we have one pretty damn big difference. I don't believe killing is ever the answer. And I guess that includes you. Here." She lifted the collar where he could see it. "I think you like that I chase you. I think you're mad because I'm getting married and in some weird way you're gonna miss me, and I think you like this collar because it temporarily stops whatever's gnawing away at you right now."
He gave her a weak, dark-rimmed glare. "Boy, you really are full of it, aren't you."
Despite his grit, he obligingly lifted his chin. She slipped the collar in place and he collapsed backwards in relief, eyes closed with bliss. She tucked the tool into his hand and far away into the distance she could hear her father calling her name. She also thought she could hear dogs barking.
"I dunno, Claire, I'm getting a little tired of being hunted…"
"Says the hunter. Look, it'll be a circus if the cops get their hands on you, you should probably get a head start."
He sat up and rubbed his face.
"Gabriel," Claire continued gently, assaulting his ears with the much maligned use of his real name. "You know, you were born with an incredible gift, you -"
"It's not that incredible, Claire."
'Yes it is. You can understand anything. You can fix anything." She placed her hand on his bare chest, above his heart – her touch was smooth and searing and a spark snapped between them though she paid it no notice. "I just think it's a shame you don't use that gift to fix this." She held his gaze, heavy with meaning, for a long time before he finally nodded then slipped away into the night.
She jumped when Craig's face popped into existence before her. He pulled her into his arms and she was grateful for the warmth he spread through her body. She'd never been so happy to see him; she clutched him so tightly she thought his ribs might pop.
"You're okay?" he murmured into her ear. "Of course you're okay."
"You're okay! I'm sorry, baby, this day has been one godawful mess… we should've eloped…"
He nuzzled his forehead against hers. "Maybe after the FBI is done questioning you about your elicit activities or some shit," he chuckled. "That's my Claire, wouldn't have you any other way."
"Well, I hope you'll love me some other way – the 'elicit activities' are coming to an end. I don't want the FBI gunning anyone down when we get ambushed by black-suits on a secluded beach while we're being married by some tribal shaman…"
"Heheheheh, Claire -"
"I'm serious, Craig. I have a job now, and I'm gonna have a husband." She let him help her out of the cave and accepted his tuxedo jacket, shrugging it over her shoulders. "I'm ready for the quiet life."
"Sounds good, but somehow I suspect life with you is never gonna be quiet."
~*~*~
They were set to eat chicken parmesan and veggies with dip for weeks. And cake. Craig had gone with the Claire's father and brother to help load the farm truck with props and chairs and the remaining flower arrangements, leaving Claire and her mom alone in the church kitchen packing up the food.
"He's in love with you, you know."
"Well, mom, after today I sure hope so, I mean he did ask me to marry him and he did put up with the wedding-of-the-century-that-didn't-happen with awful good humor…"
"You know who I'm talking about."
Claire set the cellophane down on the counter a little harder than she'd anticipated.
"Why else would a man kidnap a bride from her own wedding?" Sandra justified.
"I can see how that might look a little suspicious…"
"Claire, I just think that in his twisted, perverted little world the way you chase after him has become… I dunno, sort of a relationship. A really weird one. He's mentally ill, Claire, and you told me yourself that he's got it in his head, now that you're both invincible, that you belong together. How do you know he didn't plan that all along? I told you from the very beginning I didn't like it."
"I'm not invincible, mom, just…" she turned to face her mother, unable to find the right word.
"That's beside the point, Claire. I just think you should -"
"I know, I know, and stop worrying. I'm done chasing him – I'm gonna be a wife and an employee like a good little girl and Sylar is gonna be the FBI's headache from now on."
"That's not what I was gonna say. I just want you to be careful. I'm worried that, in his own mind, he's gonna think you're abandoning him and he won't take it very well. I don't think you've seen the last of him." Claire didn't think it would be a good idea to bring up Sylar's abandonment issues at that moment.
"Well mom," she said as she returned to wrapping up a tray of vegetables, "he's gonna live forever, just like me. I'm pretty sure 'seeing the last of him' is a statistical impossibility. Did you know Micah mentioned to me he thought Sylar might have a split personality, like his mom? I think he's right." It made sense after all, he was dualistic enough. She was interrupted when she felt her mother's hands land on her shoulders, slowly and gently turning her around to face her. All seriousness had left her face and had been replaced with a warm and loving smile.
"You looked so beautiful today, honey. I'm so sorry your wedding was ruined."
Claire couldn't help but smile in return. "It's okay, mom. It is. It was a bad idea from the very beginning, with how hunted we are and everything. Besides, I'm thinking Hawaii might be nice for attempt number two."
"Those machines, Claire… I've never seen anything like them… I don't like that my baby girl is being hunted by anyone. Someone's got to do something about them."
"I know, mom. I know. Just don't know what that is yet."
They hugged each other close for a little while before finishing up in the kitchen. Claire tried to push aside thoughts telling her she was never going to get her quiet life – images flashed through her head of flying drones terrorizing her coworkers and tearing up her office, of she and Craig always on the move to avoid being awakened in the middle of the night by shadow people busting into their home. She tried to ignore the nagging suspicion that one of the reasons Sylar kept hunting abilities was because he, too, was tired of being hunted himself. All she wanted was a good night's sleep and a long bath, and she was pretty sure she was going to get only one of those.
~*~*~
*** Six months later ***
Tafari Nkosana was a student at University of Chicago. He was terribly dyslexic which never allowed him the capacity to be more than an average student – aside from the fact he was an extraordinary human being. His instructors believed he sat at the rear of his classes in order to disguise his disability and avoid attention, a boon they granted him. What they didn't know was that, to Tafari, a whisper was a shout – he needed the distance to protect his sensitive ears, ears that could pick up sound on nearly any frequency.
Sylar was quite aware that there would be no sneaking-in-and-attacking when it came to this target, which was why he was currently seated a few seats down the row in a large lecture hall, drumming his pencil eraser against his lips, taking a break from pretending to take notes. He'd wormed his way into Tafari's study group which was meeting that night at a local coffee shop, then he'd also convinced the young Kenyan to allow him entrance to his home under the pretense that he'd wanted to go over some notes he'd missed while out "ill". After a long evening discussing the metabolic functions of mitochondria, cross-eyed after endless pictures of other organelles clouded with arrows and too-tiny writing, Sylar decided he had at least a little respect for his new target and sprung for Chinese on the way back to the man's apartment. They both ate and chatted amiably until Sylar stood to toss both his empty carton and used chopsticks in the trash. Both hands free and clear, he turned and lifted Tafari into the air, who then began to laugh and curse in some African tongue Sylar didn't recognize, thinking his new friend was having fun at his expense, elated there was someone else on earth like him.
Sylar smiled cryptically and reached into his backpack, retrieving a spherical object with innocuous blinking red lights.
"What is that?" Tafari asked.
"This old thing? You haven't seen one of these yet? Heh, interesting. This thing is capable of some serious irritation, but I've been able to reprogram it to keep the drones from… nevermind, it's not important." Sylar'd procured the object after the ill-fated wedding of his sweet little blonde nemesis – he'd discovered a cache of them hidden in one of two white vans that had been waiting at the side of the highway he'd been walking to get back to town. After… dispatching the vehicles of their occupants, he'd found himself in the possession of both transportation and an arsenal of new toys to play with. "No my friend," he continued, "the object is the least of your concerns. This, however," he lifted a finger and applied a touch of sharp pressure to the man's forehead, "is at the top of the list."
Did he just hear someone try the doorknob on the front door? He stopped and tried to listen through Tafari's frightened gasps – his voice having been stolen and unable to emit any cries for help. Sylar moved to the door and put his ear against it. No, it was just a neighbor in the hall. He repositioned himself to begin slicing.
Tafari's throat wheezed a silent wail as the first trails of blood welled from the slice on his head. What was that?!? That time Sylar definitely heard a noise coming from the fire escape. He held up his two index fingers to tell his prone victim he'd be right back, earning him a wide-eyed glare of terror and confusion.
He ripped open the sliding glass door that led to the fire escape. An orange, fuzzy blur brushed past his leg as it darted into the kitchen in search of a food bowl.
"Oh for shit's sa-"
He thought he heard a voice from somewhere above him – a whisper or a taunt. She had to be around here somewhere. She would need to be dealt with before he could continue. He followed the stairs up the fire escape one flight at a time, never encountering another soul, until he reached the roof – a dark, quiet, uninhabited roof. He turned his anger inward – he'd let his mind play tricks on him, a moment of weakness, a secret desire Gabriel had convinced him to indulge.
She wasn't here, and she wasn't coming. She wasn't going to chase him anymore.
His heavy footsteps returned him to Tafari's back door. He was finally free of her, he could have everything he wanted – he could build himself into the perfect machine and singlehandedly storm the super annoying evil scientist stronghold to completely eradicate their menace and could do so unimpeded. He should feel overjoyed, liberated. Instead, he felt hollow… incomplete.
At some point during his contemplations he'd accidentally released his hold on his victim, who'd immediately fled the premises leaving the front door wide open, still swinging. Knowing the authorities wouldn't be far behind – along with anyone else who'd decided to start chasing him this week – he stuffed his sphere into his backpack which he then shouldered as he descended the fire escape stairs to the alley below.
It was a chilly December evening. He drew up his shoulders to ward off the cold. All around him were families smiling and shopping and anticipating time together with good food and pleasant surprises. He hated them all. That night his world had just gotten a little larger and a whole lot more lonesome.
A/N #2: I get paid in reviews - love me!!!! =D