Death Becomes Her

Summary: Sylar confronts Claire one final time. He still has questions, and God help her, she better have the answers. Takes place sometime after the events of "I am Become Death".

Spoilers: Possible S3 spoilers but mostly AU and speculative.

Author's Note: I've taken some liberties with the plot, so please be kind. I'm just having some fun. Also, I haven't written anything in a VERY long time, so I'm maybe a bit rusty.

Pairing: Sylaire

Disclaimer: All characters and source material are the property of NBC and Tim Kring. I wrote this for the sole purpose to entertain, not for any monetary gain.

A/N: Thanks for everyone that's reviewed or added this story to their alerts and favorites. And special thank you to Vespaer, who encouraged me to write again.

Chapter Ten

Claire Bennet – Pinehearst Laboratories 23 hours after the Costa Verde Explosion

Pain- pure, unadulterated pain courses through my electrocuted body. I feel and acknowledge nothing else. Agony imprisons me as its suffocating hold surrounds, penetrates and obliterates every living cell trying desperately to restore itself.

I'm in Hell and there's no escaping it.

Years ago, I would have given anything to feel the slightest sensation. How I longed for just a twinge of awareness- the reassuring touch of someone's warm hand or the corporeal softness of a kiss against my skin. I missed the heat of a summer day and the tingling chill of a cold winter's morning. Both were a distant memory now.

Ironic then how my greatest wish has now become of my worst nightmare in the blink of an eye. And I have Sylar to thank for it all.

I'm faintly aware of the synapses of my frazzled brain launching urgent messages to nerve endings that had lain dormant and numb for years.

They're certainly alive now – blazing hell-fire that burns me through and through.

Meanwhile my other senses have been diminished, taken from me in a blue streak of bright light. With my eyes seared shut and my hearing gone, no sight or sound can infiltrate this wall of anguish. Blessedly, I can't smell either or I would have to be subjected to the disgusting odor of my own cooked flesh.

Presently I have no notion of what's happening around me. Only the pain speaks to me - constant and excruciating. And since I've been stripped of my regenerative powers, there'll be no respite for me.

So I resort to the next best thing: divine intervention. Gravely, I begin to pray to a God I don't even believe in. But here I am begging the fucking Almighty, the Unseen Wonder, for a swift demise to arrest my suffering.

Over and over one lone thought rattles around in my head:

Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

Please make it stop. For FUCK'S sake make it STOP!

Yet no matter how many times I replicate my pitiful litany, I'm given no relief from the torture. With prayers unanswered, charred flesh continues to sizzle, precious blood ebbs away from the damaged vascular vessels as the Grim Reaper slowly makes his approach.

And thus ends the life of Claire Bennet, not with a bang but with a whimper.

lllll

Seconds, minutes, hours- they all feel the same to me. I have no idea how long I've been in this state between life and death. I don't even know if I'm still conscious. All I do know is that any passage of time is bad since it seems to prolong my misery instead of finishing it.

And just when I think I can't bear it anymore, the pain comes to a grinding halt.

Just…like…that. If I had any working fingers left, I would snap them right about now.

Is it over? Am I dead, really and truly dead, I wonder curiously. Where's the white light then, or the choir of angels heralding my arrival to Paradise? Both it seems are conspicuously absent.

Meanwhile, there's a small part of me that hopes that I'm just moments away from whatever waits for me in Here-After. An even smaller part secretly wishes that somehow, someway that I'll get a glimpse of my son.

That's what my Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Prewitt always said. That when we die we would be greeted in Heaven by those we've lost throughout our lifetime.

If she's right, if what she preached is accurate, then I'm just a heartbeat away from facing my Noah. A little boy I condemned to die.

Suddenly, I'm afraid. You have no idea how much. And yet…if there's a chance, even the slightest opportunity to make amends, then God (if He does exist) will mercifully grant me a moment to make things right. After that I'll resign myself to the eternal castigation for my many, many sins.

Mommy's sorry, baby, I want to say desperately.

I'm so sorry I hurt you, (that I killed you). I'm sorry, Noah for leaving you.

I'm so, so sorry…

Would my words of contrition fall on deaf ears? Or will the child I birthed then murdered find it in his tiny heart to absolve his wayward mother? Was I deserving of such forgiveness?

I had no answers, only doubt and self-loathing for the monster I allowed myself to become.

I soon realize though, that nothing has happened except the absence of pain. Why is this taking so long? Does Jehovah have a backlog or something?

Then the fabled white light finally makes its long awaited appearance. However, it's lacking in heavenly brilliance. Actually its candescence is rather dull, akin to the dim glow of fluorescent lighting.

Then that's when I hear it…the sound of a voice, faint and distant.

"But first … heal Claire. …the truth once and for all," I hear it say. The message is garbled almost static-y in nature, words are strangely omitted reminding me of an old transistor radio broadcast fading in and out.

Moments later I sense the weight of someone's hand on my forehead. And in the next instant an unexpected yet familiar prickling starts to spread across the expanse of my skin, like a bothersome itch, marking its territory like some mad conquistador.

And when the tell-tale signs of regeneration start to kick in, I know that I'm a long way off from St. Peter and the Pearly Gates.

My body begins to quake violently as muscle and sinews are miraculously reconnected to bone. Skin once blackened and burnt, renews itself to its usual healthy peach glow. Meanwhile, I can feel the strength returning to my limbs as my vital organs start to function with the vigorous potency of an eternal 16 year-old.

Very soon, I'm fully flung back to the land of the living with a sharp gasp and a mighty jolt that rocks me to my very core.

Next, my eyes fly open, almost of their own accord, to assess my surroundings. Disappointment soon takes hold however, when I'm greeted by the unwelcomed, scarred visage of another St. Peter- my terrorist uncle.

"I thought I killed you." My voice comes across as a croaky whisper, signaling the fact that my vocal cords are still healing. Quickly I roll over onto my back to face the enemy head on.

"Didn't take," he responds curtly. He's probably still pissed that I shot him in cold blood at point blank range.

Then it hits me-I failed at carrying out my mission. A mishap no doubt brought on by the death of the Haitian. It doesn't matter though.

It's a mistake that I plan to rectify now that I'm fully healed.

Yet before I can put said plan in motion, I'm immediately paralyzed from the neck down by the crippling affects of Peter's TK.

God, how I HATE that ability and the loss of control as a result!

"Now that I've got you and Sylar's undivided attention," Peter says with a touch of self-righteousness, "I'm going to educate you both on some facts."

"SYLAR? That bastard just tried to kill me! Let me go Peter, right now!"

"So you can what…finish him off? And when you're done, then you'll take me out too, right? I don't think so, Claire.

I have a better idea. You'll just lie there, like a good little assassin and shut the fuck up before I make you! The grown-ups are going to speak now. So you should listen up, Cupcake."

Naturally, I launch an immediate verbal protest against his terms and the use of the juvenile epithet. "Fuck you! You can't do this to me! Release me now or I'll…."

The next words out of my mouth are summarily cut short by the unseen power clamping my lips together like a vise.

It's impossible, I think to myself. How can he sustain that much energy to keep both me and Sylar down?

Then the raison d'être strikes me like Zeus' lightening bolt. How could I've been so stupid? It's plainly obvious now. He's boosting the telekinesis with Eric Doyle's puppetry.

Clever- looks like Peter the Power Repeater's picked up a few new tricks since he allowed that bomb to blow me to bits.

lllll

That was the day I first discovered that my personal hero was actually the man behind all of the terrorist attacks against the Company and Pinehearst.

I'd been assigned to track down and dismantle an anonymous, faceless entity known only as Rebel. The word then, within the tightly nit circles of domestic and international intelligence agencies, was that this new threat was ten times worse than Al-Qaeda.

Further data revealed that this faction was suspected of being a tactical assault group comprised of both specials and ordinary humans. Their numbers were unknown, their powers immeasurable. Worst still they were organized, well funded and very, very dangerous.

On a more personal note, Rebel had brought about the death of my father, Noah Bennet.

When news of my dad's loss had reached me I swore vengeance. Enraged by the injustice of it all, I demanded an eye for an eye. And I vowed then and there to get it at the cost of everything I'd held so dear.

Gabriel tried to get me to listen to reason. He begged me to think of him and our son.

Sadly, the only thing on my mind had been retribution. The rest be damned.

With my father gone, the Company's demise soon followed. There was only one place left to go. So I turned to the only person that could have understood my need for payback - my biological grandfather, Arthur Petrelli.

When I showed up on the ground floor of the Pinehearst building with nothing but the clothes on my back, Grandpa had welcomed me with open arms.

"Don't worry, Claire," he had reassured me in that gravelly voice of his. "You'll be well taken care of, I'll see to that."

I'd said nothing in return, though I tried to draw comfort from his words.

"I know why you're here," he continued unperturbed. "You did right to come to me. We're family, Claire. And family looks out for one another.

You want revenge? No problem. I'll make sure you receive all of the skills you'll need to make that happen. Remember, Claire you're a Petrelli, vengeance is in our blood."

With marriage and child abandoned, I wholly submitted myself to the grueling training at Pinehearst and all of resources my grandfather had to offer.

I welcomed it.

It was under Arthur Petrelli's tutelage that I became hard, callous and cunning. And while the disciplined instruction in the art of war me molded me into a fearsome combatant. It was my own invincibility that made me an unstoppable killing machine. I was transformed into the perfect warrior that no blade, bullet or explosive could annihilate.

And when Arthur had finally deemed me ready, I was unleashed upon the world.

lllll

Surprisingly, it didn't take me long to catch the enemy's scent. I'd quickly latched onto it, savoring its pungent tang like a bloodhound on the hunt.

I watched and waited, in high pursuit of the trail of tainted breadcrumbs each criminal activity had left behind. Precious clues that very soon had led me and my team straight to Rebel's doorstep.

For the better part of year I'd been looking for a group of killers, terrorists.

Imagine my surprise when, lo and behold, I'd found my dear Uncle Pete instead.

Very quickly I learned that he was not only a part of the illicit organization but its de facto leader. What was left of my heart had shattered in that very moment.

"You son-of-a-bitch, you killed my father!" I'd screeched into his face.

He begged me then. "Claire, you don't understand…please let me explain."

But it was too late for supplications, way too late. He might not have been the one to pull the trigger. Yet I still held him fully responsible for what happened, regardless of the circumstances.

I knew then what I had to do. My mission was clear.

Without hestiation, I drew my weapon, as did two of my agents, the German and Jesse. But as luck would have it, several of Peter's fellow insurgents had done the same. We immediately found ourselves outnumbered and out gunned. Yet, I was determined to take Peter out anyway I could.

As expected, a heated gun fight had soon ensued. The last thing I remember was diving for cover behind a toppled table while I tried to return fire as fast I could. Then in the melee of bullets, powers and confusion someone yelled out, "BOMB!" And then the world exploded in a dazzling display of fire and light exterminating every last soul that had resided in the derelict building.

Hours later, only two people had walked away from the blast. One of course had been yours truly. The other had fled the scene of the crime like the coward he is.

We ceased to be family on that day, Peter and I. Instead, we grew to be sworn enemies from that time forward.

lllll

And now if he thinks, for even a instant, that he's off the hook because of this whole healing thing, then he's seriously mistaken. Nothing's changed. There'll be no reprieve, no truce between us.

He's still a traitor, a low down criminal that needs to be brought to justice that's long overdue.

Peter better watch his back. The minute it's turned, I'll kill him again first chance I get. And so help me God, I'll find a way to make it stick this time.

Meanwhile, Peter seems very fucking pleased with himself. Clearly satisfied by my obligatory compliance to his demands, a twisted smile craves its way across his face, accentuating the disfigurement I put there.

I'm rather proud of that fact, but more on that later. Looks like Uncle Pete is about to bore me with his tale of woe.

"Okay you lovebirds," he says mockingly. "Let's bring Claire up to speed."

Ugh, what's with all the nicknames, Sylar Jr.?

"I know you'll probably find this hard to believe, Claire…but I swear that what I'm about to say is the God's honest truth."

Ha, the "truth"? That's rich coming from him. Peter the Terrorist, the very same man that deceived and betrayed his own family is going to tell the truth? This outta be good.

After a very pregnant pause, Peter Petrelli decides right then to drop an even bigger bomb on me.

The Mother of All Bombs it seems…like the first one wasn't bad enough.

"I guess there's no easy way to say this. So here goes: Noah is still alive," Peter dares to claim.

The implausible assertion is like a swift punch to the gut. And just as quickly, anger ignites the fire in my blood. I can almost feel the churning red tide rise to the surface of my skin, causing my face to burn hotly.

Sick bastard! I want to yell at him. How dare you tell such a lie? Oh, you're sooooo gonna die!

Robbed of motion and voice, frustration quickly sets in. The only thing left to me is the ability to growl behind my invisible gag. It's all I can do to show my condemnation.

Shockingly, I hear Sylar do the same. I guess we're finally in agreement about something: Kill Peter Petrelli.

Peter meanwhile, oblivious to his impending doom, continues to prattle on like he's reciting a recipe for sponge cake.

"Noah's not the only one that's alive…so is Angela."

This last revelation makes Sylar go ape-shit. It's evident by the frequency and volume of his unintelligible groans.

Peter tilts his head towards the noise, acknowledging Sylar's unspoken demand to have his voice restored.

"I guess you have some questions, huh?"

From the corner of my eye I detect Sylar nodding his head furiously in response.

"Okay, I'll remove the gag, but only if you promise to behave yourself. Same goes for you, Claire."

Minutes of hesitation tick by before I see my ex-husband give his consent to Peter's request with one last nod. I'm not so quick to agree. But after a few more seconds of uncertainty, I finally offer my sanction as well with a slow bob of my head.

Peter smiles before employing a simple hand gesture liberating us both from the muteness we've been forced to endure.

Not surprisingly, Sylar is the first to speak in that abrupt manner I know and hate so well.

"How is this even possible?" he brusquely asks. "Peter, Angela died in a ski accident four years ago. The three us of were at her funeral, for Christ's sake!"

Unshaken by Sylar's assertions, Peter fired back with one of his own, "Yeah, we were. But let me ask you this: did you see a body?"

Before Sylar could respond I decide to join in the repartee. "Of course not, Peter. Don't you remember it was a closed casket ceremony? Arthur said that the body couldn't be viewed due to her extensive injuries. "

"Yeah, Arthur said a lot of things. But I soon found out that none of it was true"

Immediately I come to the defense of my grandfather whose memory is being maligned by his own son.

"How dare you even speak his name, especially after what you did you murderer? You killed your own father by putting a bullet in his brain! So you're no position to point any fingers."

In the face of my vitriol, Peter calmly shakes his head in apparent denial. "Oh Claire, you poor deluded girl, you're still his good little soldier, aren't you? If he were still around you'd follow his orders without question, wouldn't you?"

"If means I get to take out scum like you, then you can bet your sweet ass I would!" I spit back with all the hatred I can muster.

Just then a clearly fed-up Sylar yells in a booming voice to high heaven, "Will the two of you just SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Shocked by the ferocity of Sylar's words Peter and I instantly quiet down.

"Look, Claire," he addresses me directly, "I get it, we all hate each other. And that's fine by me. I don't care about sparing anybody's feelings here!

But…if there's even a chance that my son is still alive then I want to hear what Peter has to say!

If it's bullshit, then we all know how this is going the end, in a three-way blood bath. But if it isn't…then I'll kill anyone that gets in the way of finding my boy, you got that? Anyone."

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to get the gist of the implied threat. And the even clearer implication that Noah is his son alone isn't lost on me either.

And as much as it pains me, I have to side with Sylar on this one. If there's a grain of truth in what Peter has said about Noah then it couldn't hurt to hear his story.

With an exasperated sigh I say, "Fine."

Satisfied, Sylar then turns his attention back on my uncle. "Okay Petrelli, you've got the floor. Make this worth my time or so help me God I'll peel the flesh right off your bones."

"Yeah, promises, promises. We all know you're nothing but talk, Gabe," Peter scoffs in a brotherly manner. Judging from the sour expression on Sylar's face, he's not amused by the jovial attempt. I watch as his dark pitiless glare silently beckons Uncle Peter to get on with it.

Peter acquiesces to the wordless plea when he switches gears, down-shifting his voice into a more somber tone.

"All right then, here goes nothing. I know that Mom's alive because I dreamt of her. I've been dreaming of her for over a year."

At first, there's a dead calm as Peter takes a pause to assess our reaction.

Then I let him have it. "That's it? You had a fucking dream? You've got to be kidding me, right? All this cloak and dagger business, blowing up people to kingdom come was because you had a dream about your dead mommy? Give me a goddamn break!"

"Be quiet, Claire," Sylar lashes out at me. "God, you really are blonde aren't you? Don't you get it? He dreamt about Angela."

And that's when the sudden realization hits me with the force of a Mack truck.

Oh, crap. My blonde roots MUST be showing.

TBC…

A/N: Okay, I know I'm an evil, horrid person for ending this on another cliffhanger. But before you crazy fan girls come looking for me with your pitchforks and torches, I promise the next chapter will have more of those answers you're looking for.

And the good news is I've already starting writing chapter eleven! It should be up in another week or so. Besides, aren't you guys happy that my muse is alive and well?

SHE LIVES! SHE LIVES!

That means you'll get more chapters out of me. So it's a win, win!

I also wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming response I received for the last chapter. It was the best "welcome back" present I could have received. Your kind words of support and encouragement let me know that I was missed and that you really appreciate my work. So again, thank you from the bottom of my Heroes -Loving- Quinto- Stalking heart!