Gabriel heard them from miles away.

There were many times that he had cursed this ability; oftentimes there were things he didn't want to hear, and others were simply too loud to ignore. He'd learned over the years how to turn it on and off, to dull or enhance sound, though sometimes he lost control; that had been happening more often than not since his 'visit' to the hospital in Pennsylvania. There were many times when he'd found himself using an ability that he had thought they'd taken or that had simply lain dormant. They had manifested themselves without his willing them during his stay until, eventually, he was put into an induced coma to prevent any more mishaps.

Now, however, he was glad for the inconvenience. He was laying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what he would do once he did reach California, when he heard their voices. They started out indistinct, though as he focused in on them he sat up, immediately alert and awake.

"We traced the phone calls to this motel."

He was unsure if he was hearing dialogue or thoughts as they continued, though it didn't matter. He was already on his feet, slipping the money and keys into his pockets as he pulled on his shirt and jacket, walking out of the room quickly and pulling the door closed behind him.

He knocked on Claire's door, but she didn't respond. He cursed under his breath as another snippet of dialogue came to his ears.

"They were driving a stolen vehicle. …President will be happy to have this mess under wraps…"

With a flick of his finger he undid the lock on the other side of the door, willing himself to be silent as he approached the bed where Claire slept. He couldn't risk her waking and making a ruckus; they would be found out faster that way. He paused for a moment near the head of her bed, listening for the voices once more.

"….Here."

He reached down and pressed his hand over her mouth, holding her easily in place until she recognized him. He cursed once more as she began to struggle harder, nearly kicking him in the process.

"Claire," He hissed, struggling to keep his voice low. "They found us. They're coming. You have to get up."

He slowly lifted his hand, ignoring the cold glare she gave him as he stepped back, pulling open the window that she had bolted shut, catching a glimpse of a car as it turned towards the parking lot. He cursed once more, no longer heeding the volume, and spun around quickly.

"Claire, we need to go, now," He said, no longer thinking of her as the frightened deer. He didn't have time to coax her along. He would drag her along if he had to; they had no time left. He paused when his eyes fell on her form, sitting on the edge of the bed as she pulled her sweater over her head. He caught a glimpse of a strip of pale skin before she stood up, glaring at him as she caught his gaze. He simply gestured towards the window.

"Why the window?" She whispered, and he resisted the urge to make a snide remark.

"They're already here," He said simply. He could hear their footsteps in the parking lot, making their way to the door. The men were in no rush, but he knew that they had to be.

He pushed back a wave of annoyance as he realized that Claire was waiting for him to go first, unwilling to put her back to him. He slid out onto the fire escape, ducking down quickly as he attempted to free the rusting ladder from its spot; it obviously hadn't been used in years. No longer worried about noise, he kicked the top of the metal rungs until they released themselves, clattering downward until it came to a screeching halt. He heard the footsteps pick up their speed, already up the stairs and coming down the hallway. He glanced back into the room, only taking a moment to move the bed in front of the door, listening as they began to pound on the other side in an attempt to gain entrance.

"Go back the other way."

Gabriel swore under his breath, placing one foot on a rung before slowly lowering himself down, listening as the rusted metal creaked beneath his weight. He half-expected one of them to snap, hurtling him downwards where he wouldn't heal from broken bones. He made it to the bottom, however, and had just stepped off when Claire hurried down, nearly slipping in the process. It only occurred to him then that he could have simply flown down to the ground; his mind was so muddled that he was unsure which abilities he retained and how to access them.

He met Claire's eyes for a moment, nodding as she began to head in the direction of the car, her bare feet nearly silent on the pavement. He caught up to her in moments; they had to circle around to the car at the front of the building, and he heard the sound of the front door slamming open, two pairs of shoes pounding on the pavement, and a brief blast of a gunshot.

Claire had stopped moving; she stumbled back, losing her footing as another shot rang out. Gabriel watched as she fell, blood staining her shirt and trickling from the corner of her mouth as the two men he'd heard approached, now pointing their weapons in his direction.

He felt distant from himself as he threw one of them into the wall, barely moving his wrist to do so. Perhaps he wasn't as out of practice as he'd thought. The thought may have given him pause at any other time, but now it simply fueled his rage. He smirked slightly as the other man fired his gun, stopping the bullet as it moved towards him and sending it back, where it lodged in his bulletproof vest and sent him tumbling to the ground. Gabriel waited until the man had stumbled to his feet, regaining a trembling hold on his gun, before he tore it from his fingers, sending it towards himself where it landed at his feet. He stepped over it, smiling slightly at the fear he found on the other man's face as he took a step back. It only took a moment for Gabriel to reach him; he gripped him by the jacket, shoving him against the wall of the building and lifting him off his feet. Perhaps he hadn't lost as much muscle as he'd thought.

"Still glad you were sent on this little mission?" He leered, pressing his elbow into the other man's throat, listening to the sound of his struggling breath. "Hoping for a raise? A little thanks?" He lifted the other man by his throat, dropping him abruptly when he stopped struggling. He watched with jaded amusement as the other man gasped for air, struggling to find his footing when Gabriel kicked him down, again and again. A cat playing with the mouse, he thought with a smirk on his lips. He didn't feel guilty; this man deserved death. He was trying to bring it onto him, after all. He wanted to punish people like him simply for being different, for daring to want to live in the open like everyone else did. He pressed his boot down onto the other man's wrist, hearing clearly the exact moment the bone snapped, somewhat surprised that the officer remained utterly silent. Gabriel could clearly see the pain on the man's face, in his eyes; he wondered how much it would take to make him scream it out…

The sound of another gunshot pulled Gabriel back to the present. He stepped away from the prone figure in front of him, looking back over at the other man he'd knocked away so easily before. He was utterly still, a pool of blood quickly spreading out around his head from where Claire had pulled the trigger. Gabriel slowly released his invisible hold on the man at his feet, looking at the trembling girl a few feet away, her hands stained red with blood, though whether it was hers or that of the man she had killed he was unsure. He felt foggy, as though he had been a bystander watching his previous actions, the way he twisted and manipulated a man, the turn his thoughts had taken in only a few moment. He had wanted to kill him, despite the fact that he had no abilities. He hadn't known it was necessary and simply done it, accepted it; he had craved the power that came with it, the rush of blood and adrenaline that resulted from taking another's life into your own and destroying it. He was reverting.

It was obvious to him, watching the way she slowly moved to her feet, her eyes wide and frightened, that Claire didn't share his sentiments about bloodlust. He could hear the distant dialing of a phone from inside the motel, and it was those three simple digits that finally pulled him from his reverie. He grasped Claire by the arm and pulled her towards the car, somewhat surprised that she didn't fight against his touch as he deposited her in the front seat before getting in the driver's side, taking only moments before pulling out of the parking lot. He watched in the rearview mirror as the man whose wrist he had snapped hobbled to pick up his gun, though by then they were too far out of range to hit.

He pressed his foot nearly all the way to the floor, uncaring of speed limits or rules of the road, intent only on leaving the motel as far behind them as he possibly could. He caught a glimpse of Claire out of the corner of his eyes, small and pale and bloodied, and frowned slightly as he turned corner after corner, only content to slow down once the sound of sirens, which had begun to blare as soon as they left the motel, had fallen silent.

He turned off the headlights, heading out of the small town and back onto the more open road. If they remained unseen, they could leave the city far behind before their pursuers (or pursuer, now, he supposed) realized which way they'd gone. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead on the road, though occasionally he glanced behind them, searching for any telltale signs of pursuit. The night was dark and silent, and he finally relaxed slightly, allowing himself to plan their next move.

They would have to ditch the car. The men had said something about tracking the plates; they'd have to find another one, or another way to travel. He remembered their mention of phone calls, and glanced once more at Claire in the seat beside him, her eyes focused straight ahead and knees pulled to her chest.

"Did you use the motel phone?" He asked, and when she didn't respond he felt a sharp stab of anger fight its way to the surface of his being. The stress of the night, the lack of sleep, and his general annoyance at the entire situation had grown too much for his newfound patience.

"Claire," He repeated, and when she still didn't respond he pulled to the side of the road. It only took a moment to pull the keys from the ignition and turn to face her, though even then she didn't move, didn't even acknowledge what had happened.

"Claire," He repeated, grasping her shoulder and turning her to face him. "Did you use the motel phone?" He asked again. Her eyes were focused on something far beyond him, and he grasped her chin none-too-gently in his hand, forcing her to look his way. Still, she didn't see him.

"Claire!"

His voice reverberated through the small space, finally shaking her from her reverie. She jumped, looking first at him, then at the blood on her hands, and then at their surroundings. He didn't move his hand from her shoulder, mindful of the way his fingers dug slightly into her skin, the way she flinched slightly and tried to pull away from him.

"Yes," She said softly, and he let go of her shoulder, falling back into his seat with a groan. No wonder they had found them so easily; they could trace any phone call made to the Bennet household without batting an eye.

"That was stupid," he said quietly, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She was looking at her hands, still stained red and sticky with blood.

"I wanted to hear their voices," She said, picking at one of her nails, struggling to scrape the blood from beneath it.

"Did they answer?" He asked, unsurprised as she shook her head.

"No."

Gabriel put his head back against the seat, closing his eyes with a sigh. He could feel the anger evaporating from his body, leaving him only with a quiet resignation and annoyance. He felt a slight shiver run down his spine as he pictured the events that had just unfolded in his mind. The bloodlust, the joy and rush of adrenaline as he towered over the man by his feet. That wasn't supposed to be him anymore, he thought helplessly. He wasn't Sylar any longer; he had left that man behind in Matt's basement, trapped forever in the back of his mind. He refused to let him out again. He may not have been the Gabriel Gray from his youth, but he sure as hell was no longer the cold, unfeeling serial killer that Claire associated him with.

"I killed him."

He turned back to Claire, who was facing him now, though her eyes had gone somewhere far beyond. He felt a frown tugging on his lips as he looked at her, tired-eyed and exhausted.

"You had no choice," He said quietly, and she shook her head.

"Of course I did," She said. "You always have a choice. I chose to kill him."

"He deserved it," Gabriel said simply, and blinked when she turned her eyes onto him, suddenly furious and alive.

"Says who?" She demanded. "Who are you, or anyone else, to decide who deserves to live and who deserves to die? No one has the right to make that decision. My father tried to do it all the time, and he was always wrong. You're just justifying yourself when you make excuses like that, instead of calling murder what it is."

She seemed surprised by her outburst, quickly tearing her eyes away from his and looking back out the window. He searched for words, though what could he say? He knew that he had no right to choose whether to take or give life. That was the part of himself he was most ashamed of: the way he had played god, stealing lives from those whose had only just begun, all for his own gain. His abilities were his life, the source of his pride and the very definition of his being. He'd thought that he was defining himself, making a name; and he was. Sylar. That was the only identity he had made for himself, and now he could never shake it off. Not truly.

"It was self-defense," he said finally, his voice somewhat flat. Another excuse, perhaps. Even if it was true.

"I can't die!" She shouted, looking back at him. "Nothing I ever do is self-defense if I don't need to defend myself. What I did to Brody wasn't self-defense, what I did to that orderly wasn't self-defense, and what I just did to that man sure as hell wasn't self-defense, either!" She cried, gesturing at the blood on her hands. "I killed them, in one way or another. All of them. And I'm barley even sorry. What does that say about me?"

He was silent, wondering if she was even aware of who she was speaking to any longer. He didn't know who Brody was, nor did he know what orderly she was referring to. Maybe she just needed to vent; he knew he was the perfect target for releasing guilt and anger upon. She'd made that abundantly clear already.

"And now here I am, in a car with a serial killer, asking for advice about redemption. God, how messed up is that?" She asked, a small, bitter laugh escaping her lips. "What is your body count, anyway, Sylar? 100? 200? Do you even know anymore?" She didn't wait for a response, though he was unsure he could have given one. "I'll bet mine beats even yours," She said finally, almost as an afterthought. "All of the people who have died since I jumped from that damn Ferris wheel; all of their deaths are on my hands. How does it feel to know that a cheerleader beat your record, Sylar?" She sneered, a somewhat hysterical laugh bubbling from her throat. "I'll bet that hurts your massive ego, doesn't it. Make you want to go back and finish killing that other guy? I saw you. You were enjoying yourself. Why didn't you finish?"

He was silent, though this time, it seemed, she truly was searching for an answer.

"The gunshot distracted me," he said honestly, and she smirked.

"Of course it did," she said quietly, turning back to the window. "Of course."

He felt distant from himself as he started the car once more, pulling back onto the road with the headlights off. His mind was racing, no longer the steady, calculated ticking of a clock. He was relapsing; he didn't want to be Sylar again. He had left the demons of his past far behind, he thought, and yet somehow Claire brought them all back to the surface. He had done the most to her, hadn't he? Killed Meredith and Nathan, tormented her in her own home. Forced himself on her. Harassed and tortured her. He understood perfectly the hatred she harbored for him, her refusal to see the ways he had changed. To her, he would always be The Boogeyman, the monster underneath her bed waiting to grab her foot as soon as she let it slip off the side. Maybe, over time, she would change her mind.

Or maybe she would just kill him.

He glanced over at her, unsure whether or not she was asleep. He turned his eyes back to the road, tapping his long fingers on the steering wheel, counting the seconds as they passed. Finally, he spoke.

"None of the people who have died are on your hands, Claire," He said. He heard her shift slightly in her seat, though she didn't speak. He took this as a good sign, and continued. "You didn't kill them. It was the government, people who fear us. They pulled the trigger. You didn't." He was silent for a few moments, struggling to collect his thoughts. Finally, he simply shook his head, letting out a long breath.

"You could never be as bad as I was," He said softly. "You did what you had to do to survive, to keep your sanity. You didn't enjoy it. Until the day that you do, you'll always be better than me."

He knew that his words did little to comfort her, but they were all he had. He kept his eyes straight ahead, only glancing in her direction when she pushed her seat back, turning on her side, facing away from him.

'I am Gabriel Gray,' he thought, but the words held little meaning after the night's events. All he could think of was the hunger, not only for abilities but for the simple pleasure of death, fighting its way to the surface. 'I am not a killer.'

Humans made mistakes. They screwed up, they were flawed beings; Peter had told him this before, every time the hunger surfaced. 'It doesn't define you,' he had said, but perhaps Peter had overestimated him. Perhaps he had overestimated himself.

"I am human," he whispered, but the words sounded nearly as hollow to him as they did to Claire.

To be continued.