Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. AU.

Day 10. One step backward, two steps forward.

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The pretence is not what restricts me

It's the circles inside

Lyrics by Interpol

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Chapter 14: Familiarity

For the past couple of days, he's been living like a shadow. Half lucid, half crippled – he really feels as dead as she told he was. Breathing softly on the faded mattress, Sylar listens to the high-frequency drone known as silence. He looks at the cracks in the ceiling, smells the mold in the walls, and closes his eyes, swallowing. If he concentrates enough, he can shut it all out, the pain, the deafness, the weight in his limbs, but only at the cost of being the lowest of all. An ordinary man. And he could never be that.

So he opens his eyes, the pain returning, slowly, as does the wish to live, to fight. On times like these, he can't find the reason he ended up like this. With all the logic of the fight for survival, it should be Peter Petrelli – not him ­– lying here, crawling through the lowest pits of hell.

The keys drop and the door slams shut. The tattered couch slumps under Elle's tiny frame. She's returned, with her strange pills and clever smile, neither ever boding well. He lifts his head a few inches and observes her enthusiasm, unable to match it. It's not the cure she promised, but it does the trick, buys him a few hours to make him function again.

She calls them the Haitian pills. He swallows the irony and the pills, closes his eyes, waiting his reversed powers to fade, take the delusions and pain with it. Just the low hum in his ear. She leans closer to make sure he hears her – sounds have been growing distant lately –, and puts the thoughts in his head.

One more day and you'll get it. And then we'll get them. The clock starts ticking, and he realizes it was there all along. He just couldn't hear it.

"Better now?" Elle chirps, snuggled comfortably at his side, too close to be comfortable – that human stun-gun. Sylar opens his eyes to see her grin, playing with his hair, as if he were a drugged out tiger. She was never allowed any pets, she says.

A faintest laugh curls on his lips, dying away in his chest. The girl has no clue about wild animals.

In another part of the city, time flows its own course. The building is quiet per usual, and their little gathering in the hallway almost seems to congest the floor.

Nathan stands in the middle, hands in the pockets of a gray suit she doesn't remember stealing from his wardrobe, shirt is open a few buttons, and despite the comparative scruffiness, still looking like he owns the world. Claire shakes this image off, remembering the painting in his office and what could have happened.

Crossing his arms in unease, Mohinder spares a long glance through the closed doors, as if something could step up and blame him. But the body lies still, wrapped in the white sheet, just a single gold ring glinting in the left hand, stiff and unmoving. Elle is still missing.

They've waited too long already.

-

"Can't we just do it?" Claire breathes, a cloud of mist condensing on the glass. "It's not like she wouldn't want this…"

"I don't think it's our decision to make," Nathan insists, avoiding looking at them. Claire leans closer to the window.

"If we put it off much longer, it will be." Mohinder gestures, voice troubled, "We don't know the limits of this, there's no research, just guesses… "

"All this time," Peter interjects, "they had Adam right here, the material, all the blood in they needed. Deveaux, our father, every member who died, even you, Nathan – nobody was saved. They obviously didn't want to use it."

"You think there are complications?" Suresh muses. A silence spreads, icier than the morgue. Claire turns from the window, apprehension gnawing away at her guts. Did she and Peter make a mistake?

Nathan stares right back to hide his discomfort. "I'm feeling fine, thanks."

A shake of head as Peter clarifies, "No, I was saying – what if there was a reason for this?"

Two days of sorting the Company archives, or what was left of it, and they only begin to realize the sheer extent of their records. Not hundreds, but thousands of specials, all carefully studied, assessed and put away. From the age of manifestation to visits to dentist, favourite TV programs and restaurants they ordered the take-out – anything that might be useful one day. Most of it isn't. The records that do matter are missing mysteriously, hidden or destroyed like those in Odessa. The only ones still intact are stored at Linderman's offices, at maximum security, even after his death.

Refusing to waste any more hours on this fruitless search, Peter backs down, gazing at the towering rows of information. Hopeless doesn't even begin to describe their situation.

Nathan has apparently given up long ago, sitting at the table with the Bishop, Elle file he found stashed between the two heavy shelves. Peter thinks, picking up the photograph of a much younger girl, pretty and blonde, a stuffed animal in her grip. There has to be something they're missing.

"I could find her," Peter suggests. "Maybe she can tell us something." – Nathan keeps reading. "She wouldn't. Besides, it's unlikely Bob shared his secrets any more than our parents."

The empathy nods, besides, he's spooked her enough already.

­–

"Strange," Peter huffs, remembering their last little incident. – "What?" Nathan asks, half-listening.

"Did Elle know you were alive when she saw you, the day before?"

"I don't think so. Even Suresh was genuinely shocked."

"She didn't look surprised at all," Peter muses.

Nathan turns the page, the tests begin. Accidents with water, limits found. "The girl was still in a shock. I'm sure she wasn't even capable of showing a proper reaction."

Peter shakes his head, ardent to prove his point. "No, it was like she already knew. If anything, she was nervous about seeing me."

Finally, Nathan stops, looking up from the material. "I guess Bob already found out and told her."

"Or someone else did."

-

Back at his hotel, a shock penetrates Nathan's chest as a male voice across the street calls him by his name. With apprehension, he turns to face the stout man trotting at his direction.

"Hey, I've been looking all over for you." – Nathan slumps visibly. Paranoia is a close firend these days. "Parkman."

The streets are busy and they head for the nearest little café. Seated in the back corner, Matt begins with his revelations. "I found something concerning the file, the black bird logo."

Nathan sips at his coffee. "So you know what it is?"

"No," Parkman shakes his head, "but there appears to have been some sort of an investigation, several decades ago. Most of the paperwork was destroyed in a fire, but this part of the file was stored elsewhere." He pulls out a pile of carbon copies, probably risking his job by bringing them here. "This logo has been spotted before, and you're never gonna believe it – this thing here predates the Company."

"1961…" Nathan mumbles, skimming the faded dates. "It predates even us."

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The script is old, barely readable, parts of some old paperwork, but Parkman is convinced to have made quite a discovery. "Whatever this was about, it included lots of shady deals, money transfers, unsolved deaths… Once the police got involved, the evidence mysteriously disappeared. Any guesses who the suspects were?"

He already suspects the worst. "Tell me." – "David Linderman, Adam Monroe, your parents, for instance, some more shady figures I haven't been able to identify. After the evidence was lost, the investigation reached a standstill and all charges were dropped. Hopeless case, really."

Nathan studies the file for a while, then looks up, deciding. "You think it's possible they're still active?"

Matt shrugs. "There hasn't been any sign of them for years. Why now?"

"Many things changed after Linderman's death, power shifted when Bishop took over. Something might have got out of his hands. Something that Linderman was able to contain."

"It's possible. But without any proof it's just a speculation. You don't know for sure."

That's true, of course. Nathan traces the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the ring, sighs like it's taking some mental effort to say this, "There's someone who does."

In this cheap rental place, the crumbling walls offer no shelter from the reality. The truth is just as bitter as unnegotiable.

Daddy is gone. She's still here. Alone, for the rest of her life.

The way Elle was raised, not that she can remember much of it, added a great deal to her survival instincts. Given her dependency, it's hard to believe, but underneath it all there's an almost manic wish to live, to succeed, matched by the fear of failing to do so. It's behind everything she is and does, the reckless behavior, the lack of judgment and complete disregard for the consequences. How this became entangled with the need for appraisal is another matter entirely.

Sylar has some theories. Some insight as well. In the end, they're both on the same way down, swimming against the drain. She has to keep moving, pursue her stupid revenge, have a purpose, be a part of something other than nothing. He knows that need. The need of rush, something to distract yourself with. Without it, there's just… this.

Eventually, the truth is bound to catch up with her. Maybe she's stalling for a reason. For when it's all done, she'll really have nothing left. Just the psychopath she's holding captive.

Or is it the other way around?

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"I lost my mother, too," Sylar tries, when the heaviness turns suffocating.

"No you didn't." Hurt makes her cruel. "You killed her."

It was an accident. But does it matter? He's too tired to go through the trouble of self-justification for a person who doesn't care anyway.

"Is that what you believe?" – "That's what my Dad told me. He never lied."

"Have I ever lied to you?"

Elle sits up, the clank of the boots on the old warehouse floor. A small finger traces his lower lip.

"Let's hope not."

Mohinder is working late, as always. It's a trait her mother always ascribed to his father. She would say there can only be one love in your life. She was sharing hers with his work. Mohinder swipes his eyes, vision blurring already, and looks back through the microscope. There were days he wished he could consult his father, discuss the theories he had struggled to understand, find answers to the questions that were keeping him in his lab in the late hours. Maybe he'd have the answers by now.

Claire's eyes follow him across the room. He takes some samples, runs some tests, analyses them, runs some more tests. She was curious at first, and he didn't mind explaining the process, but after several hours even he gets tired. So does she. Claire stifles another yawn, rests her head on the counter, looking the man through the glass tubes and beakers.

The clock ticks 23:47. She could have left long ago, or waited somewhere else. But the lab is still better than wandering the empty corridors – with the dead bodies in the basement, the place is worse than an old mansion. Instead, she remains here, actually getting along with Mohinder better than she'd be willing to admit.

-

When the geneticist turns around, she asks the question. Maybe she shouldn't have, but it emerged like a bubble, kept under the lid for way too long.

"Why did you shoot my Dad?"

"I'm sorry?" the Indian stutters momentarily, clearly taken aback. Claire meets his eyes, but there's no anger anymore, just some prodding around the wound.

"I mean," she explains, seeing the answer is not coming, "it was either him or Bob. How could you decide something like that?"

Mohinder looks down, then up again. There's no way out of this situation. He tells her the truth. "I didn't… decide anything. You don't have the time to think. You either save the person or not. That's all. I'm sorry if the answer disappoints you."

Peter's hand on her back is tentative and unsure as they pass through the front door. He seems distracted somehow, in his own world, and Claire expects another cab-night. Or subway, who knows. That's why it surprises her to have him pulling the hood over her head, zipping up her sweater as if she could actually get cold, and smiles coyly. She laughs, suddenly realizing…

The stars are blinking in the chilly air, and despite the nearing summer, the sky still keeps to the shade of dark blue. It's been a while since he flew her home, making this time the more special. She finds a way around his jacket, the awkward fumbling now replaced by skill, locking his hands around him in the anticipation of the jolt that would lift them from the ground.

She remembers the first time, the very first one with West, she remembers the feeling, the feeling of weightlessness and excitement bubbling in her stomach. With Peter, it's different. It's a much closer, more intimate experience, one that means much more than just the fun of it. When they're in the air, it's as if they're part of another world. A perfect escape, until they land, too soon - always too soon. Their feet touch the concrete. Without realizing, her hands still cling to his jacket, afraid to let go.

He disengages from her on the rooftop, but doesn't move or step away. From what it looks like, he's just enjoying the view, but there's something else, something he needs to tell her.

-

Thousands of ideas pass through her mind, terrifying and silly ones, fast enough for him not to read them, but none of them prepares her for the reality.

"Your father…" he's quick to specify, "Noah, he called last night. He's coming to take you home."

Claire looks down, tries to breathe. She should be happy, right? "When do I have to go?" she asks, voice devoid of emotions.

Peter lets out a sigh, shakes his head against the wind. "You don't have to go anywhere."

"But Nathan," Claire rasps, bitterness emerging, "he doesn't even want me here." He never did.

"Yes, he does," Peter assures offhandedly, gazing at the cityscape. "He's just too scared."

Claire looks puzzled, Nathan and scared don't really go together her mind. She frowns, brushing strands of hair away from her face. "Scared of what?"

He looks down, 15 stories to the ground, where his brother once waited.

"Scared of failing."

To be continued…

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Notes: I apologize for the obscenely long pause. There were some difficulties to overcome, but here it is eventually, and slightly longer as well.

Plot details: I'd really like to see some Sylar/Elle dynamics played out on screen, I'm sure that Zachary Quinto and Kristen Bell would do marvelous scenes together, cute and twisted of sorts, if they would only let them.

Sylar's condition. He's a bit different, you see. There's no telling how many involuntary abilities (aside from super-hearing and Charlie's super memory) he has absorbed, but if you heap them together, it should be quite enough to render him disabled. (Plus the bullet wound in his leg.) As explained, the condition only affects the special genes and their functions, but he also has a certain control over them, since, unlike Claire, he can choose to use them or not. At least he's trying to.

Coming next: Revelations… Lots of answers coming.

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Thanks for reading. Comment if you're following :)