A/N: Hope everyone had a safe holiday and will have a fabulous and equally safe New Year!!! And, dare I say, I think this story is getting close to its home stretch! I can see a light at the end of the tunnel!!!
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) Beth
The Shadow Man awoke to a blistering, suffocating heat, and the sound of two voices conversing in the dark distance.
"Finish strippin' that one, can ya? Gotta piss like a racehorse…"
Oh hell. He knew where he was. He sat suddenly bolt upright, startling the mortuary technician who was just about to get her hands on the mildly protective suit covering him. He was in the abattoir where the bodies of the dead Guard were reduced to bare organic compounds used to create the bio-diesel that powered the operations responsible for their manufacture.
"Oh!" the girl gasped. "We thought you were dead!" He most likely had been dead. He had revived after his collar had been removed from his neck. He didn't dare answer her – tell her anything – for fear his voice would sound obviously different from the other clones, rousing her suspicion. He let body language speak for him, tilting his featureless head to the side as if to say, "Well, duh – obviously I'm quite alive…"
"You must be a healer," she realized, stepping out of his way while he stood, timidly placing his weight on still-wobbly legs. He spied a shelf across the room stocked with numbered boxes – one of the boxes had a number that matched the one printed on a band circling his right arm. He reached it after taking a few more confident strides and pulled it down. It contained all the equipment he'd carried on his person, including the neural tap reader he'd used as a hand-held scanner and his utility belt – the one that still had Sylar's fingerprints melted onto its surface. Collecting his property, he nodded once to the technician before making his way from the building. His hunt had to continue immediately. His 'rescuers' had known exactly what to do with him, but what had they done with Sylar? In order to find out he would need maps… lots of maps… and some privacy.
One of the benefits of being a member of the Black Guard was the lack of a credit account. Because their lifespans were relatively short, and because the cost of their manufacture was so easily recycled, they were completely subsidized by Federal Intelligence, included in their annual budget. As a result, the Shadow Man never had to pay for transport and always had a guaranteed living space. The crematory was adjacent to a small medical facility, devoted solely to the needs of the Black Guard, whose emergency entrance shared access with a large garage housing vehicles of all kinds. Above that rose the giant tower that provided them their accommodations. He made a short stop at his dormitory on the ninety-eighth floor to grab an old familiar data chip. He knew he should've stayed there longer in order to further promote the façade of his normalcy, but he had been gone a long time and there was somewhere else he would rather have been.
Leaving the garage in a small black sedan he drove directly through the streets of Itasca to the Federal Intelligence building where he parked the car (since its movements, like the rest of their vehicles, were monitored closely according to public mandate) and walked the remaining twelve blocks to his destination. He performed a special, coded knock on her door, one they'd agreed to years before. It swung slowly open to grant him the long overdue sight of her expressive green eyes and long dark hair, and the slim figure whose molecules she had complete control over – only aging if she told them to. For a moment she held her stance, very still and mistrustful – she could stand to lose a lot if she accidentally let in the wrong black suit.
"Olivia," he let the breath pass from his lips, pleading with her to let him in and not leave him standing outside, conspicuous. She stole quick glances down both directions of the street, checking for nosey traffic before she stepped aside to allow him passage into her home.
He'd barely dropped the masking mechanism before her open hand slapped across his newly exposed face with a loud 'clap'.
"Where the fuck have you been?!?" she cried, tears soaking her eyelashes. "Do you have any idea how long you were gone?!? A fucking lifetime, no word, no nothing!!! How dare you show up here now!!! I thought you were dead!!! I could've been dead! I could've been captured, enslaved, murdered – who fucking knows what!!! I could've met someone, gotten married, had babies, forgotten all about y-"
Her tirade ended when he grabbed her face and pressed his mouth against her hot, plump lips for the first time in nine years. She returned his kiss with angry fire, tugging at the suit covering his body in a futile attempt to remove it as he pinned her against the wall just inside the doorway. He hadn't even set foot on the carpet yet.
"I'm gonna need some spare clothing," he panted against the smooth skin of her neck when he pulled away to suckle it.
"Not right now you're not…" She wrapped her legs around his waist, twisting her fingers into his dark hair, letting him dry hump her for all of two minutes before they tore urgently down the hall in the direction of the bedroom.
Two hours later, freshly laid and showered, the Shadow Man sat at Olivia Terry's kitchen table, wholly content in a pair of old, worn sweats she kept in a box buried deep in her closet for just such an occasion.
"I am really glad they haven't caught you," he told her tenderly, placing his data chip into her holo-display, carrying on the conversation they'd… interrupted earlier.
"Well, I'm not gonna be able to stay here much longer. I'm supposed to be forty next year, and people are starting to tell me I look really good for my age. Two more rebels have infiltrated the central labs, though – did you know that?" Of course he didn't. Of course she did. Still in information technology, she was a big part of the reason rebels were able to procure new identities – she had a direct link to Federal Intelligence databases. She was also untraceable and incredibly difficult to catch. That didn't make her any less vulnerable, however, if she chose not to allow her cells to degrade and her body to age. "The rebels could really use a guy like you."
"You know why I don't join them," he muttered, bringing up the first set of maps, flipping through them until he found Pisces, which he figured was a good place to begin renewing his search for his elusive prey. The Shadow Man couldn't possibly sacrifice the future by choosing a side – doing so would put his anonymity at risk. There wasn't another soul in the universe who knew what he knew about Sylar, and if something happened to him… their kind would be doomed.
"Probably the same reason why I shouldn't," Olivia responded, adjusting the tie on her robe while steeping a steaming cup of Earl Grey. She was correct – her capture would affect countless others.
"Rebels? In the central labs???" her words had finally caught up with him.
"Yep."
"That's… that's great." It meant he wouldn't have to rely on Sylar's borrowed ability to work on his formula – he would have help. He fought viciously against the swell of hope in his chest. He could take nothing for granted while the largest piece of the puzzle was still running around the cosmos, moving further away by the second.
A star chart depicting the Pisces sector of space bloomed in the luminous, ethereal blue of the holo-display. The most widely populated of all the sectors, it boasted three colonized worlds, only serving to further complicate his efforts. He raised the laser pointer he'd retrieved from his utility belt and beckoned for quiet while he narrowed his eyes in concentration.
He hovered the red dot to blaze over each planet in slow succession until his senses confirmed the map he needed was for the planet on which he currently stood – the predominant seat of the Pisces sector (and arguably most of charted space), affectionately named 'Avalon' by its inhabitants. With a couple easy hand gestures he was able to condense his output down to an atlas of the globe. His pointer landed heavily and assuredly on the city of Itasca.
"Oh my god he's still here…" Olivia knew he was only talking to himself – she reserved her response to allow him his continued focus. The Shadow Man didn't know why he was so surprised. They both couldn't have been there more than a day or two, maybe three – how far could he have gotten with no money and no… I.D.
But he did have I.D., didn't he? He'd checked.
He zoomed in his field of view further still, showing him a street map of the city. He seemed to drag the laser everywhere, until…
"Shit!" he cried. This time Olivia reflexively joined him by his side. He turned to her suddenly, pleading. "Liv, honey, I need to know if you can get me some information out of your databases."
"Of course," she replied, setting her tea cup where it couldn't be knocked over before placing her hand on top of the console feeding output to the display. Her fingertips took on a translucent appearance as they sunk through the casing, accessing circuitry and issuing demands. "What would you like to know?"
"I need to know anything you can tell me about an agent named Tom Krtek."
His attention was snared when the windows containing his maps were minimized. In their place appeared a rather intimidating looking command line which became populated with complicated lines of script, joining a series of tables in order to select variables based on the parameters of the name he'd given her. After a short processing period, the data he'd requested leapt to the screen, telling him exactly what he needed to know.
"Fuck! It's true – he's at the train station. He's being deployed to the field! I have to go, before I lose him!"
He jumped out of the chair, tearing off his clothing as he ran down the hall toward the bedroom where he'd left his characteristic black suit. Olivia slumped in disappointment, cupping both hands around her warm cup while she leaned against the archway separating the kitchen from the living room. She crossed her ankles while she waited for him to emerge. He jogged back into the living room, pausing only to latch his belt around his waist and check to make sure he hadn't lost the car keys.
"You gonna make it a cool decade before I see you next?" He paused and looked up at the sound of her voice. "Because, really, I'd kinda like the opportunity to move on."
He approached her, slow with sentimentality, and lifted a hand to caress her cheek sweetly.
"I will be back soon. This is all going to end. The world's gonna change, Liv. I have to do this. And there's gonna come a time when I'm gonna need you."
They both knew she'd be there, even decades later. He pressed one last loving kiss to her lips before he activated his masking device and left her home.
Twenty-three minutes later he'd barely cut the ignition of the car in a visitor parking space before he sprinted from the garage into the station, ripping the neural tap reader from his belt. His footsteps still managed to echo in the busy, crowded halls. He slowed to a brisk, excited walk as he struggled to control his breathing and reconstruct his composure. The scanner had picked up a reading in a restroom twenty meters away.
"Ten years my ass," he muttered to himself as he allowed the frequency to guide him…
Straight to the J-shaped bend in the pipework snaking underneath the middle sink.
He'd removed the tag. And he was a shapeshifter – he could be anyone, anywhere.
"…son of a bitch…" he whispered, shaking with rage.
The three other occupants who had been sharing the facility were then seen by onlookers to be passing through the exit – rushed and nervous – having bore witness to the very unusual sight of a Black Guard collapsing to his knees in the middle of the train station mens' room, furiously weeping.
~*~*~
*** Sixty years later ***
Claire had spent a lot of time getting used to things. One of the things, however, that was not included was the dizzy sensation she always felt immediately after the ship's tesseract engines shut down and forward propulsion became the responsibility of auxiliary power. Swallowing against the slight wave of nausea, she was anxious to get to her feet and roam in the general direction of an observation deck, and perhaps a cup of tea. She was in the Leo sector again for the first time in a long time, having spent her last 'life' in the Cancer sector helping to re-secure and rebuild the disbanded rebel safehouse, whose evacuation – through Gabriel – she'd been able to ensure. She knew that the coordinates to which they'd jumped were fortunate enough to be graced by the alien and hauntingly beautiful spectacle that was the Dragonbreath nebula, one of her favorite nighttime visitors during the times she'd spent previously there.
The mess hall resembled the glittery, commercialized dining areas of old ocean-going cruise ships: massive buffets catered to the tastes of a varied and eclectic populace, and a wide platform of expensive cloth-covered tables was framed by a giant viewport yawing off into space. Claire gently set her steaming cup onto a table situated close to the cool plexi-cement then dipped into a chair and tucked her legs under the tablecloth. She cherished these precious quiet moments alone – times of much needed reflection, when she could pretend she wasn't being sent to perform dangerous work in a treacherous world, when she could pretend she really was on a cruise. She blew steam from the surface of the liquid not in an attempt to cool its surface temperature, but to waft its moist warmth across her cheeks and eyelashes. A sigh left her lips as she gazed at the nebula, its fiery red and orange glow piercing easily through the attempts of the oppressive surrounding blackness to extinguish its flame. She wished space luck, having watched it lose to the nebula many nights before over the past century, very much like a dragon laying waste to a black knight, mocking it for its feeble endeavor.
Her peaceful reverie was broken by a short trill from her fet. Someone had logged onto her messaging client, presumably a rebel handler prepared to issue coded orders before the ship reached port and pulled in to dock. While slightly dismayed, she couldn't help a wizened smile – at least her eternity wasn't dull. Aside from obviously wishing the world were completely different, she had to admit that at least she was happy to be busy with something that fulfilled her. She removed the persistent device from her back pocket and gave it her attention, drilling down messaging on the display. Four words blinked before dimming and disappearing: Osiris has logged in.
Her smile softened into something more tender as she sucked her bottom lip and let her head rest on a supporting palm. While he was a rebel, Gabriel certainly wasn't her handler and was a much more welcome sight. She watched as the fet logged her in, absentmindedly running her thumb over his chat moniker.
She'd poked fun at him for the name once.
'The Egyptian God of Death…? Isn't that kinda old fashioned for you? When's the last time you took someone's head off?'
'Claire, Claire, Claire, don't you read? Please, allow me. He was also known as He Who is Permanently Benign and Youthful, which I thought was fitting, as well as the Lord of Silence.'
He'd become uncharacteristically quiet after that, which screamed to her that there was something more, something he wasn't saying.
'…and???'
'… and…' He paused before bravely continuing. 'The Lord of Love.'
She didn't make fun of him after that. Well, not for the name, and certainly not to remind him Osiris married his sister. She did, however, find it strangely peculiar how, after having landed himself the kind of job that forced him into regular social interaction, he'd suddenly become obsessively fascinated with dirty jokes. In a way, it was weirdly sweet – her ugly duckling was becoming a swan.
"Morning," the word popped into existence.
Having lost all concept of time, adrift in a sea of space, the word looked foreign to her, although she had to concede it was likely morning for him.
"Morning, sunshine. What r u doing?"
"Getting coffee."
"How many shots, Captain Caffeine?"
There was a small pause.
"4."
"Wow. Late night, stud?"
"Wtvr. Some people like coffee. Got a new one 4 u - it's great. Rdy?"
"Shoot, Tex."
She waited for what seemed like forever while his nimble thumbs pounded out the lengthy message.
"Couple just got married. On their honeymoon the wife tells the husband, 'plz be gentle, I'm still a virgin.' Husband replies, 'how is this possible – u've been married 3 times before!' Wife responds, '1st husband was a gynecologist, all he wanted to do was look at it, 2nd husband was a psychiatrist, all he wanted to do was talk about it, 3rd husband was a stamp collector, all he wanted to do was... Holy shit I miss him!'"
Her sudden bark of laughter echoed in the nearly vacant expanse – she clapped a hand to her mouth as a newly seated couple turned away from their filled plates, curious about her commotion.
She missed him. The last time she'd seen him he'd just returned from somewhere in space and was spending the night in Carver City before returning to Itasca – he'd stopped at the Go-Getter thirty minutes before closing for a late-night dinner. He'd been the only patron (aside from two regulars wholly occupied at the bar drunkenly playing a game of holo-golf), and she the only remaining wait staff for the night. She'd made sure his BLT had at least one extra slice of tomato, knowing how he loved the "T" in a "BLT" the best, and she'd piled him on an extra scoop of their special curly fries when the cook hadn't been looking. Gabe looked slimmer than usual, and that pesky maternal… thing surged up to control her actions yet again. She'd seated him outside any prying line of sight, and joined him for a few minutes before she moved off to finish her shift.
She talked and talked while he quietly ate, a precious rare dimple developing at the corner of his smile, decorating eyes that were still intensely wolfish and gleaming. She didn't allow him a word edgewise, forcing his mouth to be busy instead with much needed food. She practiced her code, droning on and on about a fantastically lethal new gun she'd had the good fortune to procure, while sounding to any imagined bystander as if she were prattling his ears off about curtains for her living room. She could tell by the way he'd occasionally lifted an eyebrow that they were on the same page. In the end, he'd just laughed at her, dragging a napkin across his lower face, shaking his head.
"So you got your periwinkle blue window treatment," he'd finally replied, pushing the empty plate away an inch or so, neatly folding the napkin across its face. He put his elbows on the table and pressed his clasped fingers against his lips, sizing her up with a stare that still managed to rankle her unease. She didn't think there'd ever come a day when Sylar wouldn't know just how to rub every nerve she had. "That's not all that's new."
She met his gaze with expressionless silence. She'd known he'd see through the shadows under her eyes. The passage of time had stripped them bare to each other.
Eventually breaking the eye contact, she revealed herself with a whisper while nervously fidgeting with the condiments.
"… lost another baby."
With a sudden movement he pushed his chair away from the table and crossed his arms over his chest. He narrowed his eyebrows and stared laser beams into the carpet, heaving a large sigh.
"You don't have to worry about me, I'm fine… it was just… something that happened, I knew it'd just -"
She was interrupted by the sound of Jason's voice – he'd shown up early, picking up his paycheck and hanging out with friends before he drove his wife home. Gabriel'd stood abruptly, sensing it was time to make his exit. With an unusual swing of mood, he'd held his hand out to her. She'd taken it, and allowed him to bring her to her feet while warming her fingers. Perhaps she'd let it linger on hers a little longer than was prudent. He slowly slipped his fingers from her grasp to place both hands on her shoulders. Around his left arm she could see Jason's golden face silently pop around the wall that concealed them from view.
"I just," Gabe'd said, "… just take care of yourself, okay? Just be happy."
It had been the first time Jason'd questioned the faith he'd had in his wife, first of many to come after a few more unsuccessful pregnancies. It wasn't long thereafter he and she had relocated to do some work in the Aries sector, investigating ground being broken for the construction of new mod camps. From there she'd moved on for a rather prolonged stay in the Cancer sector.
That night, however, was also the origin of Gabriel's new habit of messaging her jokes to make her smile. After how much he'd taken from the world, how could she deny him this outlet of giving back? The couple across the way, who appeared to be enjoying tacos together, returned her smile, enjoying the sudden outburst of good humor in an otherwise bleak and vastly empty universe.
"Omg ur terrible," she messaged him back, sure to include a smiley face so he knew his efforts were successful. The changes he'd made in himself deserved some sort of reward, and the behavior (however occasionally lascivious, but he was male), deserved to be encouraged.
"Do u still plan on seafood for dinner?" It was code. 'Are you still in Cancer?' "I'd like to bring white wine." 'I'd like to visit you.'
"No, someone is allergic, having Chinese instead." 'I've been sent to Leo.'
"And here I am, out of red." 'That's a shame.' "Perhaps I'll settle for a blush." The last part wasn't code, just his wicked sense of humor. Her cheeks were still rosy with the thoughts of a stamp collector's favorite sexual habits.
"Blush is always a good choice."
Her tea had become cool enough to drain, so she let its fragrant flavor fill her cheeks and warm her belly appreciatively. Depositing her cup on a conveyer belt that took dirty dishes away to be cleaned, she returned to her quarters to gather her belongings and deposit her luggage with baggage handlers on her deck. Two hours later, as she made her descent to the disembarkation platform, on her way to claim her things, her head snapped around after a frightening sight had entered her periphery, causing her to jump.
Behind her, to the right, across the packed and constantly shifting hangar bay, milled a rather large contingent of shadow people. This job was already turning out to be harder than she thought it would be. Fortunately, she'd gotten in a few hours of target practice before she left. And she no longer had anyone to go home to.
The universe was hers again, and aside from dirty jokes and pretty nebulas and big guns… it kinda sucked.
~*~*~
*** several weeks later ***
The people in the Cancer office were tolerable. An all-male crowd, which he found unusual, but more cerebral than he expected – not so heavily interested in drinking beer and frothing over lame sports (although Gabriel begrudgingly had to admit he enjoyed hockey). Some of the dudes had even read a book. Somehow he'd managed to get himself involved in a thoroughly satisfying discussion of Homer's Odyssey and the parallels F.I. agents sometimes experienced while conducting their work (although he saw the conversation from a completely different perspective, it didn't mean it wasn't still refreshing). He was also secretly thrilled to discover that his new partner, Mike, not only enjoyed chess, but was a competent opponent. Because he was happy for the regular opportunity to play, he even let Mike win a game once in a while, to keep him coming back like a kitten who would otherwise eventually grow bored with a feather-toy if he couldn't occasionally catch it.
And then… there was the coffee shop down the street.
It was Monday morning, and he didn't mind. His previous 'life' had been spent, mostly, in the Sagittarius sector, investigating the remains of the destroyed colony with a cadre of technicians, checking radiation and toxicity levels and calculating half-lives. His real job was to feed F.I. misinformation, and he'd admittedly taken a few rather liberal chances resulting in his need to 'die' and start a new 'life'. Sylar, unfortunately, was happiest when life was dangerously exciting… especially when that meant sabotaging every effort to repair the damaged bio-dome. Fewer colonies typically resulted in fewer mod camps.
He'd spent his time on Sagittarius shapeshifted into the appearance of his old victim Nathan Petrelli – knowing he'd need to spend an undetermined amount of time behind a different face, he decided on one in which he'd already had some lengthy experience. The effort had been exhausting, however, so – aware that this new generation of F.I agent didn't really know or remember some old guy named Tom Krtek – he had been anxious to return to his real face. He'd actually become paranoid that he wouldn't be physically capable of returning to it.
Feeling more… whole again, he slipped easily into old routines. Having awakened early for a brisk morning jog, he ducked into the coffee shop for an espresso and some peace while he sipped and perused his morning news feeds on his fet. Checking his e-mail, he found, occupying space in his inbox, the newest joke circulating the office – he forwarded it to Claire, a chuckle drawing lines at the corners of his eyes. It was then that he felt the heat of someone's stare warming the side of his face.
Without turning his head and drawing attention to the fact that he was aware someone was watching him, he let his eyes wander as far as they could go. He'd caught the sight of a small, red-headed barista who, upon eye contact, hid her sea-foam colored pools behind strawberry eyelashes and demurely ducked her charmingly freckled button nose away from him to continue wiping a counter behind her with a shy smile.
Was… was she…? Did she just…? Uhh… flirting…? Speak…? Now – or…
Feeling a little like a dipshit moron who was a complete idiot with girls, he decided it was a safer bet to flip closed his fet after choosing his return trip's soundtrack, stuff his earbuds hastily into place, and sprint like a madman out the door to jog home, get showered, and head into the office.
"See you tomorrow," he heard a timid voice call from somewhere in the cowardly trail of dust he left behind. He was going to have to find a new coffee shop.
Which was why he wasn't surprised when, the next day, his traitorous feet led him back. He hated that his wicked subconscious enjoyed the attention. He didn't know who to blame, himself or Sylar. Maybe it was someone new. He hoped it wasn't someone new. One extra personality was more than he'd ever wanted to end up explaining to someone, let alone the abilities… his longevity… his past… he should really start making coffee at home.
Out of pure reflex and for reasons he couldn't understand, he wiped the sweat from his brow and tucked his nose under the collar of his shirt, inspecting for offensive odor. Sweet Jesus, if he was going to develop a new personality, couldn't it at least be over fifteen?!? Fuck… Squaring his shoulders, deciding to be a perfectly grown, nearly four hundred year old man about the situation, he draped his earbuds around his neck and stepped inside.
It was too much to hope for that she wouldn't work two days in a row. Stupid, she did say 'see you tomorrow…' Her eyes widened at the sight of him, and not in the way he was ordinarily accustomed, with the pleading and the screaming. Similar, sure, but not really the same. She whipped around, away from him, as he approached the counter, biting down on a sudden predatory urge to pin her frail form across the bar and pull her head, by the hair, back enough to expose her thumping, faintly floral-scented pulse. He was not happy about the way his heart was smacking against the inside of his rib cage. Not happy about it at all. He couldn't wipe the frown from his face – he prayed it made him look sexy.
She twisted back around to face him, sucking her lip and blinking rapidly while trying to concoct simple yet inoffensive words. He found himself in very much the same position, especially when it came to the 'inoffensive' part. They were locked in an almost weird kind of stalemate where one wrong move would either cause her grievous injury or cause him to flee the store, shrieking like a little girl who'd just seen a spider. It was then that he noticed what she held in her hands as she pushed it between them, like an offering.
"Four shots," she muttered with feminine aplomb, "and four packets of sugar. Just how you like it – dark and sweet."
A surprised and bitter blonde had told him the same thing once… He pushed the unattainable married woman from his mind.
"Thank you," he replied, finding his voice and pausing to read her nametag, "Beth."
Her smile lit her eyes at the sound of her name passing from his lips. Relinquishing the warm cup to him, she clasped her hands on the counter in satisfaction. He lifted an eyebrow and gifted her a nervous half-smile as he moved off to allow the customer behind him his turn. Taking a seat he watched her instead of flipping open his fet. She did not have a cup waiting for the next person in line. Or the person after that.
It had been just for him. He had been… special.
Holy hell… he was in trouble.
~*~*~
Beth hadn't worked for a couple days, and when she did she usually worked a morning shift, so when Mike had asked him to join him after work at the 'coffee shop down the street' to go over some last minute details on a report they were writing up for their investigation into renewed rebel activity in the Cancer sector, he felt confident in agreeing to do so. Because Mike had to call his wife, and was typically slow as molasses anyway, Gabriel (known to Mike as 'Jonathan Kendrick') naturally arrived first.
And there she was.
She drew a surprised breath when she saw him, not just because she was catching him outside of his normal routine (which unnerved him greatly), but also because it was the only time she'd ever seen him in something other than grey jogging fatigues. Seen through her eyes, he was a tall, clean, sharp figure in smartly tailored black pants, a crisply starched electric blue shirt, and a long, past-the-knee, high-collared black overcoat with a soft, cream-colored woolen scarf that Mike's wife had knitted him for Christmas, wound loosely around his closely shaven neck. And he smelled terrific. She was stunned.
The older lady working behind the counter with her eyed the scene knowingly, and elbowed Beth in the ribs. An embarrassed flush bloomed across her cheeks.
"There's your superman," the comment was whispered between the two of them.
Beth threw her hands out in front of her, beckoning for him to wait.
"It'll just take me a couple seconds, I wasn't expecting you."
"Beth," her name arrested her again, "… maybe just a cup of tea. Coffee this late'll just -"
"Oh yeah, I wouldn't wanna keep you up all night," she laughed before her eyes widened with horror, realizing what she'd just said. She whirled away, skin matching her red hair, making haste with the hot water like a wet nurse at a delivery. "What kind of tea? Got a nice jasmine, Earl Grey, orange spice, this little berry medley that's really good, and we've got a new one – Cinnamon Plum – which everyone says is just awesome but I haven't had the chance to try it yet…"
"Jasmine's great."
"You like it sweet, too?" she asked over her left shoulder, eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"Absolutely," he returned with a devilish grin.
With both hands she carefully set the large, bowl-shaped mug on the counter between them, and tilted her head toward one shoulder while she dipped the teabag into the sweetened water repeatedly.
"Want a little honey?" She lifted her eyes to him and nibbled on her lip. The fragrant steam coated his face, and all he could do was dumbly nod. She retrieved a little pot from under the counter and began to lovingly drizzle spirals that immediately suffused into the liquid.
"So, what's your name?" she asked, replacing the pot to its previous hiding place. He opened his mouth but could make no sound, his smile dropping from his face.
He felt like he'd been slapped. This girl didn't have a heartthrob crush on Gabriel…
"Jonathan," he made his decision, protecting his anonymity as he plunged his eyes to the floor.
"What, you don't like your name?"
This girl would never know Gabriel. Would never love him.
"Can't stand it."
Which was odd, because 'Gabriel' had always been the name he couldn't stand… and now he would've given anything to be able to claim it. But who was he kidding? How could she ever really know him? Who could? Assuming anyone could get past the fact that he wasn't a baseline human, but was hunted for being naturally born with an incredible ability, oh and he was a reformed serial killer by the way… he'd just end up living long enough to watch such a rare creature eventually leave his life forever.
"Well, I think it's nice," she whispered conspiratorially as she leaned into him, pushing the mug into his limp, forgotten fingertips. "This one's on the house, Jonathan."
"Hey, buddy!" He felt a strong clap on his shoulder – Mike had arrived. It was time to get to work. He'd never been so glad.
~*~*~
Gabe hadn't given his e-mail a second thought, he'd been so occupied that afternoon re-working another report headed toward the Central Office, fudging this, falsifying that. He was cranky – reports made him want to slit his wrists (and keep 'em slit). He wanted to be out in the field, causing trouble, dodging landmines, getting shot at – double-agent spy stuff… just like the old days. He and Mike were to spend the last three days of the week, however, out on the frontier edges of the dome, holed up in the mountains with nothing but camping gear to keep them alive. It was rumored that a concentration of liberated mods was hiding up there, waiting for transport to sneak in and safely snag them. Mike didn't know it yet, but he was going to suffer an injury that would result in him being air-lifted to receive medical attention, leaving Gabe to carry out the mission alone (which meant securing an escape route for a cold and starving throng of bodies and their rebel protectorate). In a way he almost felt bad, he liked Mike. Perhaps the terrain would be steep enough he could get away with nothing more than a telekinetically sprained ankle…
Finished with his mundane task, he flipped open his fet with the intention of taking another glance at the list of supplies he'd need for his long camping weekend in the mountains. What popped up first was a message alert. It was a reminder that a co-worker, Paul, was getting married in three weeks and that he was invited. Foolishly he'd accepted the invitation, having not received a whole lot of them in his life, just to see what the experience felt like. It was overrated.
"You should ask her," his nosy partner blurted, reading over his shoulder and startling him. Gabriel snapped his fet shut a little harder than he'd meant to. One of these days he was really going to explain to these people just how well he knew what a human brain looked like with the skull sawed off. He spun around in his chair, instead, and presented Mike with his best blank expression.
"Coffee shop girl."
"Beth…?"
"Yeah, Beth! You should ask her to go with you to Paul's wedding. Chicks love going to weddings."
"No, they don't." Gabe didn't know a whole lot about women, but he was pretty damned sure women didn't like going to weddings. They liked planning them. The two were not the same.
"Dude. Cake." That was supposed to settle the issue.
Gabe knew what Mike wanted – a wingman. Otherwise he was just going to be a coat hanger and a purse holder for his wife. He wasn't going to let him off the hook. So, later that afternoon as he stepped into the coffee shop acutely aware of how badly his actions were going to screw up his life, he gulped down a little anxiety and approached the counter.
"Hey you," she smiled and her face brightened, but drooped again almost immediately. "I'm all out of jasmine today…"
"That's okay," he said, drawing a circle on the countertop, "that's not why I'm here. What time do you get off?"
Her glossed lips parted and her face made it very plain that she couldn't believe her how awesome her day was going. Pushing her hip to the side, she crossed an ankle behind the other and let her foot pivot daintily back and forth on the toe.
"Six."
"Long day," he returned, forgetting that an hour here was shorter than what he was accustomed to.
"Yeah, sometimes, but it pays the bills and works with my practice schedule."
"Practice…?"
She smiled excitedly, thrilled to be able to share this part of her with him, like she'd been waiting a long time for him to come along. He tried hard not to enjoy the sensation.
"Yes, I play -"
She was halted by the insistence of the door chime, admitting a group of ladies who made their way to the counter to peek around Gabriel, having a look at the muffins, breads, and scones. He sidestepped graciously out of their way.
"Do you know where Hartnell Park is?" Beth asked while her new customers were still conversing amongst themselves, pointing at the display case, making their decisions.
"Yeah."
"Meet me there at seven."
"Okay." He let a final look settle between them before he turned and left on feet that felt oddly unaffected by gravity.
~*~*~
It was getting rather dark at Hartnell Park at 7:12pm – he thought she was pretty brave to be meeting a nearly perfect stranger under circumstances like this. Of course, it had been her idea – she was likely to show up armed. He waited on a bench facing the main thoroughfare that led into the park, which then bridged over a lazy river and was framed by the city skyline glittering behind. Old fashioned streetlamps kicked on, their solar battery cells prepared to drain away for the evening, casting a golden glow across the lawn and causing grey shadows to dip down over the jogging trails. The air was slightly chill and damp, but not uncomfortable. The mellow lullaby of waking night birds was interrupted by the motor of an approaching scooter, which pulled up a few paces away. She gracefully dismounted and pulled her helmet from her head, allowing her ginger tresses the freedom to tumble to her shoulders. She picked up an oblong case by its handle from the cargo area of her vehicle before marching over to meet him. He stood as she grew near.
"I know it's dark out," he said to fill the space, not knowing really what to say, "I'll understand if you want to go somewhere else."
"Phew," she sighed, collapsing on the bench beside him before he had the chance to sit back down. "I'm so tired, I just wanna sit."
"Of course." He smoothed his pants and took his seat. She already had the case in her lap and was undoing the clasps. Part of him hoped it wasn't a really big gun. But part of him hoped it was… He had a thing for chicks with guns.
"I didn't get to finish earlier," she said, lifting the lid carefully, "but I play the violin." She lifted the instrument and the bow before she laid the case to the side, on the pavement under the bench tucked protectively next to her feet. "I'm with the Cancerian Pan-Colonial Symphony, which has a pretty wicked schedule. My goal is to get a few more years experience under my belt before auditioning for the Regents Presidential Symphony Orchestra, but that's really kind of a dream. I figure if I can't make it, I'll try teaching music…" She plucked at the strings a little, obviously wanting to play for him. "What about you? What brings you here to Ashton, the Diamond of the Cancer Sector?"
"I'm an agent for Federal Intelligence," he didn't have any problem telling her – it really summed everything up.
"Oh, wow. No wonder you're always dressed so nice."
"My partner says I'm gay," he replied – oh the things he put up with for a solid chess match.
"Are you gay?" she asked, teasing him. Ordinarily, Sylar utterly flat despised being teased – sometimes bad enough that even the presence of round, perky breasts couldn't mollify him. This was not one of those times. He was growing soft in his age.
"No, I'm not. So… you didn't get that thing out just to put it away, did you?"
"Would you like me to play for you?"
He just smiled expectantly. She nodded once and turned to face him, lifting the instrument to her shoulder and dipping her jaw to the chin rest. She brought her bow to the strings. The instant she drew her first chord, a man who had been walking his dog on the grassy knoll behind them brought his companion to his side, calming it, and sunk to the ground to have a listen. A couple strolling down a nearby trail stopped and stood, hands clasped. They all had an appreciation for her music that was completely different from Gabriel's perspective on it.
He watched her fingers. He studied which strings she placed them on, and at what position on the neck, and paid attention to which corresponding string or groups of strings were stroked by the fibrous surface of her bow. He analyzed the length of time it took for her to draw her bow depending on what sound she wished to elicit. The mathematics in the poetry of her motion formulated a pure consonance of notes that spread goosebumps across his arms. There was more than just artistry in her craft – there was a complex logic with systematic rules that held him entranced as he watched it work… and he learned it. He had been so enamored to watch her play that he couldn't have told her anything about the song she actually played. Which was unfortunate.
"I wrote that," she breathed, flushed as she lowered the violin to her lap. Instead of meeting his appraising eyes, she reached for her case, busying herself. "For you…" he thought he might've heard her say.
"For…?"
"It's just that…" She sighed as she snapped the lid shut and finally turned to him. "All of a sudden you show up, out of nowhere, and then you show up every day. And you just looked so sad, all the time. Like someone or something hurt you. Or you were all alone or something. The last time I was hurt and alone, I came here. I met Penny, the gal who runs the shop, and she gave me a chance and now my bills are paid and I'm following my dreams." She leaned her head back, taking in the sight of the stars and two of the three lavender moons that had just risen for the evening. A puff of fog left her lips. "Sometimes I think this planet is magic – it does things for people. And I wonder if I could be part of that… for you. If I could make you smile."
This was a slippery slope.
"…but you don't really even know me…"
She closed her eyes and smiled before sizing him up with a clever smirk.
"Then why meet me here, right? I know you have a sweet tooth, I know you like nice things by how you look, I know you take care of yourself, and now I know what you do for a living. Maybe I'd like to know more – maybe that's the whole point."
Sure – for her. But what was the point for him? Was this something that would be appropriate for his cover as 'Jonathan Kendrick' – make him seem more real – or was this something Gabriel needed? Would he ever really be able to come clean to this girl about who he really was? If not, was he going to be able to live a lie? And who was he lying to – her, or himself?
He painted a smile over his face to mask his discomfort, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "First of all, you're really talented. You play beautifully, you'll go far. Second of all," he paused out of inexperience, "I met you here tonight because… a co-worker is getting married in three weeks and I said I'd go but…"
"… you don't wanna go alone."
"…right." God he felt pathetic. Sylar was threatening to do something wholly inappropriate just to break the tension. "I just thought," he continued before he lost the chance, "that maybe we could get to know each other so I wouldn't have to ask a stranger."
She hummed her understanding and nodded. "You see," she smiled, "we want the same thing."
"Yeah. How about food?"
"… food?"
"I'm starving, you?"
"I am."
"I realize this isn't the best place to leave that thing," he gestured to her scooter. "I could meet you somewhere, or pick you up at your house…"
"There's a really good Greek sandwich shop a couple blocks that way, across the river," she replied, pointing. "We could just head over there."
"That sounds fantastic."
It was a partial truth. He loved a good gyro as much as the next person, and he had to admit he had a sudden craving for a soft, warm pita, but he couldn't shake the gravelly feeling in his gut that he was about to make a huge, hideous mistake.
~*~*~
Claire polished down her beloved .45 caliber pistol – the one she lovingly named 'Harley' because it was as manly as a big fat motorcycle – until she could see her face reflect in the gleaming blue steel. It was heavy enough she had to hold it with both hands, but the action on it was supple, still affording someone with her tiny hands a decent amount of accuracy. The rest had come with lots of practice. A flock of native winged creatures had settled around her, keeping a natural healthy distance but still curious to see if she'd feed them. They were easier on the eyes than the pigeons in her memory which made her a tad more sympathetic to their plight. She ducked into her gun bag to produce a plastic baggie filled with peanut butter cracker sandwiches. She tossed one into the little crowd of clucking flyers and grabbed a couple more to munch on herself. Clearing the crumbs from her lap, she put away her polishing cloth and pulled out her long, cylindrical silencer along with a pair of binoculars.
Her company took to the air at the sound of an approaching motor. Claire used the binoculars to peer over the edge of the rooftop, watching as a long, sleek black car pulled up to the entrance of the hotel several stories below. She was able to confirm the identity of the passenger – he was her guy. She twisted the silencer onto the barrel of her gun then settled in for a calm fifteen-minute wait, after which she placed a heavily encrypted call to her handler. The machine-masked voice on the other end told her the hotel room number she'd need. She tucked her gun into her belt behind her jacket and grabbed her bag, headed for the stairwell down.
When she arrived on the ninety-eighth floor, room #9814, she was surprised not to see anyone standing outside. Perhaps her as-yet-unseen partner in crime had created a diversion while she was on her way down the stairs. Nonetheless, she wasted no time digging into her jacket pocket to retrieve a special key card device – one that fried the sensors inside the locking mechanism, causing it to revert to its failsafe position which was always open. Hearing it click when the green light blinked before her eyes, she brazenly charged through the door.
Once inside, she found three men in suits: two obviously working to secure the room – servicemen – and the last a bald, fat figure standing with his back to her – hands clasped behind him, appreciating the view out of the large, plexi-cement windows.
"Kill the rebel scum," the man muttered dismissively before she'd even had the chance to draw her weapon. Not that she needed the time… The servicemen's bullets pummeled her ineffectually as she smiled and pulled Harley from her belt. The room grew very quiet once their bodies hit the floor.
The hot, smoking steel still stretched out before her, she took two challenging steps forward as her victim turned to face her, surprised to see her quite alive and that things hadn't exactly gone as he'd planned. He was very, very afraid.
"You're the man who authorized the further augmentation of the modular injection formula for more medical experimentation, here in this colony," she hissed through gritted teeth. "Are you aware that those people weren't lab rats?" She was seething with anger, trying to keep her gun from shaking and tears from coating her vision. "Are you aware that every single one of those people died?" She paused for emphasis, not to let him answer.
"I -"
"Are you aware of what's about to happen to you?"
She lined up her sights, she squeezed the trigger, and took her shot.
She did her job.
A/N #2: Claire, Claire, Claire... what are you *doing*??? Holy cow... And who is this BETH CHICK?!?!?! Any bets she is what she appears to be??? Hmmmm.... I have my suspicions.