Double or Nothing

Prowling through the maze-like floorplan, Sylar barely even had to look before twisting his wrist and sending a blade of telekinesis and blinding blue light at an approaching attacker. The man groaned and was sent sprawling backwards through the air before he could cause any more harm.

Sylar almost snarled in victory. Making sure he'd hit his mark with enough force to put him out the fight but not enough to cause him serious harm, he then wrenched the gun from the man's hand. Silently dedicating the deed to no other than one Noah Bennet for his over-reliance on such weapons, he took extra care to destroy the thing beyond repair.

Flames of purpose grew richer within the reformed killer as he turned his back on his fallen foe and set off deeper into the fight. This was what it was all about. This was why all of the bad stuff was worth it. His hearing was piqued, his heart dancing and abilities unfurling over and under and around him in the most persuasive scent that he couldn't dream of denying. Not when innocents were depending on them. Not when he needed them to prove himself worthy as a hero...

( )

Peter cupped his crying patient's cheek kindly, speaking quietly but surely. "Listen to me, you're gonna be fine, alright? I'm an EMT, I'm here to help you..."

He said it even after assessing the severity of her wound. Upon closer inspection, he'd noted that she was middle-aged, Latino, dressed to the nines, and that the sleeve of her dress was ripped by a bullet hole and ruined by a gruesome amount of blood. At least the shot had missed her artery, thank god. The dress was ruined, but that could easily be replaced. Arms, however...? Not always. There wasn't much he could do for her except try to stop the bleeding, but even that would be a challenge out here in the open with dangerous assailants lurking around every corner.

He tried not to hurt her too much while pressing down on the wound. Shit this would be so much easier if he had any medical equipment at his disposal – or even healing blood to give her! But for now all he had were his hands, his head and his heart, and that would have to be enough.

Nearby, flashing electricity projected a fight between shadows across the walls, like a neon series of white-blue snapshots charting Sylar's journey. Sounds of the unseen commotion was still ricocheting around the cavernous room: yells and grunts and the occasional, more distant, zap of an electrical bolt, making it difficult for Peter to clearly focus on what he was doing while part of him wanted nothing more than to be out there too.

He was so engrossed between the fight and his medical ministrations that he almost didn't hear his patient's voice break through the ruckus. "...Help... me..." She pleaded through trembling lips. Peter's heartstrings almost snapped, and he wrenched his attention wholly back to this spot.

"I will. Okay, I promise. But we need to get you outta here first..." Another pattering of bullets broke into the air, some hitting the ceiling above and raining paint and mortar down on the pair. They definitely couldn't stay here much longer.

"It... hurts..."

Peter's gut flipped. "I know, I know it does, but I need you to try and walk with me right now..." Suddenly recalling the bachelorette party from earlier, and the alcoved insets lining the room, Peter awkwardly helped his patient off the floor, looking around for the fastest, easiest way into cover.

( )

Most of the gunshots were just scaremongering, Sylar was pleased to note. That woman back with Peter must've been one of the unfortunate ones, because he'd already taken down another three masked men who had been just waving their guns around and shooting the walls and ceiling. That was eight taken care of so far, including Mr Prophecy at the start. Only eight out of twenty or so. Jeez. It sure was tiring, but that fire was still burning beneath Sylar's skin, keeping him revitalised and fresh for the hunt.

It felt good, it felt right to be out here helping while Peter worked his magic back there, both of them saving lives, the muscle and the heart, doing their individual part to cover as much ground as possible. Sylar itched to take down all these bastards in one fell swoop, but that was easier said than done when factoring civilians into the mix. He didn't want to give Peter more wounds to tend to. So one by one it had to be, and it was far from over yet.

He continued to creep between the mass of slot machines as if through tombstones in a graveyard, eyes scanning for any sign of his next fight. The machines had turned out to be very helpful so far in aiding his advantage of surprising the bad guys with a hefty electric shock or a sudden, mysterious case of paralysis... But over at this side of the room things were quieter: there were no fleeing civilians or idiots stupidly putting themselves further into harms way by not running to the fucking door like a normal person, or even any target-less shots for dramatic effect, for that matter. It was almost eerily vacant.

No... but Sylar could hear voices, all the same. He could hear scared voices. And one that was not. One that definitely wasn't a victim's.

Instead of charging in again, abilities blazing, the change in scenario was enough to draw him closer, unseen. Things seemed pretty still, so reconsidering his approach, he slid up against the last slot machine in the herd, as close as he could get to the event without revealing himself. Peeking around the corner with his practised hearing filling in the blanks of his vision, Sylar discerned that there was a large group of what appeared to be hostages grouped on the floor, and an armed, powerful captor pacing in front of them as if he owned the place.

Suddenly his heartbeat thudded heavier in his ears like a drumbeat, a jarring contrast to the lively, mechanical tunes chiming at his back. But it wasn't anticipation that was driving his pulse this time. It was a flash of recognition that he wished he couldn't place.

( )

"Here we go... almost there..." Peter puffed as he dragged the weight of his patient into the alcove. His senses were on high alert and he couldn't believe they'd managed to make it here unseen, but he wasn't about to question their good favour. "There, lie down..." He lowered the woman onto one of the couches lining the wall with her damaged arm facing him, then dropped to his knees in order to see it better.

Shit, it wasn't looking too good: almost her entire sleeve was drenched red by now, the bullet hole in her arm raw and torn. Blood continued to well up and spill over the wound like a blocked drain, so dark it appeared almost black before gravity kicked in and it dripped, very red, onto the couch cushion below her. Hiding his thoughts from his face, Peter ripped the ruined sleeve off in order to use as a makeshift tourniquet, trying to distract his charge from his ministrations as much as he was able.

"Hey – what's your name?" He asked. She floundered for a moment, as if she couldn't even remember. "Tell me your name." Peter gently prompted, trying not to hurt her while his hands slipped in the blood.

"L...Lucia..."

"Huh. I have an aunt called Lucia. Father's side." Peter smiled at her, then pulled a thoughtful face. "I'll bet you're a lot nicer than her, though." Aunt Lucia was certainly not his favourite relative, to say the least. The last time he'd seen her had been at his father's "funeral", and even then she'd demanded he re-evaluate himself and not be so sensitive, because real men don't cry and real men don't let their emotions lead them into embarrassing life choices like women's work or minimum wage hospice care. In good Petrelli fashion, she'd never failed to find a fault or fifty in every decision Peter had ever made in his life...

If only she could see the state he'd gotten himself into now.

He worked tenderly but securely with Lucia's arm, trying to keep the pressure on with one hand while winding the ripped sleeve around with his other. More echoes rang out from the main floor behind them. Wincing, Peter's fingertips brushed a little too close to the bullet wound.

Lucia hissed and more tears ran black streaks of mascara down her cheeks. "I'm scared." She whispered, and Peter wanted to hug her. For the sake of social decency he refrained, and concentrated on his work while keeping his voice light.

"Happens to the best of us." He soothed, hoping to come across as trusting and relaxed and not a total hypocrite. "And that's okay. Because even if we're scared, it doesn't mean we're useless. It doesn't mean we can't still be strong." Peter truly did believe that, this very same mentality that was keeping him alive right now. That didn't mean it was as easy as he was making it sound for Lucia's benefit, though.

She winced and shuffled on the couch, thankfully still conscious and alert. She must have been blanking out the current ordeal due to shock, but she was much more aware now than she had been so far, which Peter chose to look at as a good sign. "But you are so calm..."

At this, he actually laughed. "Oh, I'm not calm." His hands were even shaking that very second and his nerves were awake and going haywire over the entire surface of his body: he was anything but calm.

"Tell me why?" Lucia was looking at him with large eyes that were graceful even with tears in them, make-up smudging off them and wrinkles framing the outsides – trusting eyes. Maternal eyes. She had really latched onto this topic to keep her grounded it seemed, and suddenly Peter noticed where he'd accidentally put himself: on the verge of actively participating in a real, revealing conversation with someone who wasn't his best friend.

Instantly this freaked him out and he almost retreated. But then he remembered how daunted he'd felt by that barmaid earlier. How he never used to be that way. And how long it had been since he'd last talked to someone new for more than providing reassurance. Even though it probably wasn't the best procedure in bedside manner... Peter found himself wanting to open up to Lucia the way he hadn't opened up to anyone since the events at the oil rig had seared the pain shut into a hidden scar inside him. It couldn't harm to air these putrid secrets if it would help her... right?

He exhaled quietly. "...Can I be honest with you, Lucia?"

Looking mostly at the knot he was now gently tying around her bleeding arm, Peter glanced up briefly to see the older woman nod at him in a genuine desire to listen. For a second he didn't know how to begin. And then he just sighed out a dry chuckle and didn't even think about it.

"I've never been more terrified in my life than I am right now."

He could feel Lucia watching his face, but couldn't look up from tying the knot perhaps more intricately than it needed. "Really?" She prompted, like she was clinging to his answer to draw her away from her own problem. Which was the only reason it was okay to do this in the first place.

"Yeah." Peter nodded and his hair just happened to fall over his face, hiding him from view.

"Why is that...? Ow -"

"Sorry..." Peter finished the tight knot and covered it with his hand again, pressing down. Still he didn't look at her face, although he no longer had an excuse not to. "...Have you ever felt like you don't... I dunno, belong anymore?"

It probably should have been more of a struggle, but instead he found it surprisingly easy to part his lips and let everything transform from the gluttonous mass of agony into an almost coherent monologue.

"I was, uh, away for a while. And it's been harder to settle back into things than I thought it would be. I'm trying... but things just aren't the same. It's weird to think that for years I thought of nothing but getting home, but now that I'm here... let me just say that home is much more overwhelming than I remember it." Somehow this came out gently, as if he was talking about something easy, something much less monumental than the corners of his world crumbling one by one. He continued to watch his hands as he worked on stemming the bleeding, although it was far from a pretty sight. "I'm taking things day by day, but... my family – the family that I have left – they're not too happy with me right now." His eyes closed briefly of their own accord, as if to ward off the incoming onslaught of faces that attacked his memory. It didn't work.

"Why not?"

Peter sighed out a hoarse, bitter laugh, like it could ever, in any universe, be funny. "They don't like who I am anymore. What I've done... They all think I'm crazy." He lost his voice for a second. "My mother is a story of her own, trust me, and my niece... I'm scared she'll never speak to me again." Peter's hands trembled more and he tightened his hold around Lucia's oozing wound.

Just as his thoughts travelled to the reason for this estrangement, another BANG and more screams floated towards the alcove. Both Peter and his patient startled. Noah, Claire, Angela and the rest of them: how could they treat him like a criminal for trying to prevent stunts like this from happening? Why didn't they even try to understand that he hadn't meant to hurt anyone at the rig? And since when did his choice of company merit total exile from the family...? These were dilemmas that Peter had battled with time and time again, but for all his worrying of the matters he was no closer to an understanding now than he had been at the start. Didn't his loved ones at least recognise the man they used to see in him after these past weeks of newsworthy heroics? How could they disown him like this as if it didn't mean a thing? ...Did they even care about him at all...? It sure didn't feel like it.

Lucia whimpered in pain again and Peter quickly continued, partly to block out the surrounding terror from his patient, partly to derail that difficult line of thought. "Now that I'm back here, I have a job to do." He reminded himself aloud. "And they don't approve of it. I'm even terrified that I'm not good enough to do this job, but there are people who needme to help them and I can't just... stop. I don't want to. I don't even think I could if I wanted to!" He broke off for a self-depreciating head shake, one that accidentally brought his eyeline in contact with Lucia's. And suddenly he was extremely aware that he'd just blabbed far too much on some poor, unsuspecting woman who he was supposed to be helping! Somewhere along the line he had lost the difference between sharing enough to identify with her pain, and being unable to just stop talking.

He shocked himself by realising how easily his insecurities had escaped him just then, the ones he had feared to even acknowledge for weeks now. He hadn't even spoken a word of this aloud to Sylar! Although that hardly meant that the guy didn't know how much it had been crippling him. Now that he was thousands of miles away from Charles' soothing apartment, and now that his only friend was out of sight, Peter suddenly remembered exactly how much it hurt when he forgot to hold everything at bay. And exactly why he hadn't touched on this topic until now.

Hastily backtracking in hopes of resealing the floodgates, he shrugged modestly. "It's just... sometimes I wonder if I'll ever get through all this without losing my mind along the way. That's all." He forced a small smile, as if all this was no big deal.

Lucia's arm twisted under his palm, and Peter's heart plummeted at the knowledge she was trying to escape him. Only... then he realised she was reaching out, not turning away. With a groan she lifted her hand into the air, and it took a few seconds before Peter understood what she was asking of him. His fingers were wet and bloody and she shouldn't really be moving her arm, but out of concern for both their mental well-beings he grasped her hand anyway.

Even though she was tear-stained, sweating and in pain, her understanding smile might've been the nicest thing Peter had seen all afternoon. "I- I think... you are good enough... to do this job, darling."

She didn't say anything more, but that was alright because the broken empath was overwhelmed by this alone. He was so touched by this sincere interaction – the first time he'd taken that leap with a stranger since rejoining the real world – and the fact that she'd actually listened and wasn't running for the hills, that he couldn't have spoken much more anyway. He met her smile with a grateful crinkle of his eyes before squeezing her fingers, setting her hand down, and getting back to work feeling considerably more capable than he had just a minute ago.

Was it praise that was now making him feel funny? Had it really been that long since he'd received any that he'd forgotten what it felt like...?

"Yep." He managed to chuckle shyly. "You're much nicer than my aunt Lucia."

( )

Motherfucker.

Sniffles and whines snaked around the crowd of hostages wherever their masked captor drew close. These people who had only a few minutes ago been drunk and happy and waving their money or expensive jewellery around were now scattered together on the same, dirty level at the feet of a tormentor. A level that was a far cry from the usual elite they were used to. The cheating politician from before might have even been amongst the crowd, but was no longer plastered with that dazzling grin and he was nowhere near as confident in his ability to manipulate fate now.

Oh, how Sylar knew this game. He knew that many different faces could somehow still distort into the same expression of terror; that some people shook, some tensed, some got angry and some just gave up, but it didn't matter which sad stunt they pulled as long as it was a reaction. A reaction was validation. And validation was all the captor wanted from them.

Anger and shame welled at once, and he wanted to break up this sick charade before wasting another second! He wanted to charge in there and save these people and prove himself...! He wanted to. But that wasn't enough to unlock his joints and actively insert himself into a re-enactment of the memories he'd been trying to outrun for almost a decade. While he had been hiding here for a good minute now, just out of sight, gathering the will to move, his body still wouldn't obey his command. All that delicious power and purpose from before... now were nowhere to be found when confronted by the ugly face of guilt.

"...Nobody has to get hurt as long as you stay down and behave..." At the other side of the slot machine, the gunman addressed his rapt audience. "It won't be too long until my... brothers are done, and then you can all go home to your families and mundane little lives with your riches and your freedom..."

Sylar's skin crawled. The guy was enjoying playing with his food in that I-could-care-less manner that was intended to give off the impression that these people were inconsequential, really. He wished he didn't know how that felt. He wished he didn't have to be reminded of his darkest days. Especially not in a way that shone a spotlight on them and exposed them as nowhere near as fun or charming as he'd thought at the time.

During his stint as an active serial killer, he hadn't ever cared about the fate of his victims. In fact, the thoughts had never even crossed his mind while he toyed with them: what was their very first memory? Were they a cat or dog person? What was the last thing they'd said to their loved ones? Did they have a secret, and now forever unaccomplished, dream? Every single one of them had been a human being. A person. Of course Sylar knew this, but somehow it hadn't properly registered at the was probably why it had been so easy to dispose of hundreds of them using many, many differentiating methods.

Currently, the remorseful killer felt sick enough to wholly regret eating all that Chinese food for dinner. Even the way this captor was addressing his victims was pitiful in comparison to how he had used to play the game...

"Wh-what did we ever do to you?!" A civilian voice.

A grumbled chortle. "This is not personal. Just... insurance..."

Sylar stung all over. He couldn't withstand much more of this. The sting bloomed into a rash, and the rash dug jagged roots deep down below his skin until his form was literally trembling and he wasn't even sure if he was going to shout or expel an electric current from his skin. Without even planning to this time, he stepped out from his hiding place and into full view of the civilians with the final embers of fire burning in his eyes. "...It's always personal!"

The hostages flashed with hope and relief; the gunman twirled on the spot and Sylar speared his hand towards his target, lassoing him with an invisible whip of telekinesis. He hauled the man through the air towards him with no regard for handling him gently, to the renewed fear of the staring crowd and the outrage of the captor. Once his fingers clamped around a clothed windpipe, Sylar slammed his victim onto a nearby table, sending discarded chips clinking into the air upon impact.

Pinning him to the table surface, Sylar glared down upon the embodiment of his own regrets with an unintelligible tornado of feelings storming inside his chest. He only barley remembered to command the hostages to run outside through the pathway he'd cleared of assailants, before turning his full attention back to this one who wasn't even attempting to struggle. He only lay still, unblinking, as all his bargaining chips fled the premises. Suddenly he wasn't such a smooth talker now that he was no longer in control.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I kill the mood...?" Sylar snarled, voice dripping with contempt. His captive said nothing. All Sylar could see of him were dark, colourless eyes and a smirk through the holes in the mask, but it was more than enough to know he was being taunted. Bristling, with his free hand he grabbed for the hem of the mask and ripped it clean off, preparing to completely devalue his captive's motive with a sharp tongue and wit alone if need be!

Only, all such intentions trickled away as his eyes struggled to process the identity of the man below him. Who else was it, but the same man from Peter's many paintings. The same man who Sylar had already put out of action across the other side of the casino.

( )

The sounds seemed to be dying down, and Peter caught a glimpse of a herd of civilians sprinting for the exit across the room. He glanced back down at Lucia's bandage, which seemed to be doing its job well enough, and wondered how much longer he should leave Sylar before joining back into the thick of things.

He always hated separating from his friend on their missions, even though Sylar's track record (as far back as Peter had known him, even) gave no reason to worry for his survival. It wasn't only that which was urging at the empath, though. It was longing for the moral support that came with being a team, with working together and fighting side by side. There was nothing else like it: to be able to transcend so many borders with someone as painlessly. For example, Peter had never before known someone who he could happily share dinner with one minute and charge into battle with the next. It still felt new, something he had never imagined would be possible for him, even up until that wall had finally broken and set them free to choose to stick together...

"Your friend?"

He was startled by Lucia's rather apt change in topic. The woman seemed calm now, lying still and watching him with a clarity that cancelled out concern over blood loss being the reason. Peter could actually feel fulfilment carve another notch into his heart from managing to help someone.

"Yeah?"

"You do not have to – to do it all alone." It was clear from the look on her face that she hadn't magically forgotten everything that Peter was now slightly regretting telling her. However, she was smiling through the pain, and he gladly accepted her support with an uncontrollable curve of his lips.

"I know."

It was true. He did know. And that was the most precious thing in the world. With that resurgence of affection, Peter discerned that Lucia's arm was tended to enough that she would be okay if he left to rejoin Sylar at last.

"I gotta get back out there. You're gonna be fine, alright? When this is over security will find you, get them to take you to a hospital." He instructed kindly, touching his less bloody hand to her cheek again. It was always difficult to move on from any patient, but particularly in this case. It had been so long since anyone aside from Sylar had last listened or given him any encouragement in his plight, and he wished wholeheartedly that Lucia's efforts could make everything inside him okay. If only it was that easy. She had tried, though. She had made enough of a difference that Peter cherished it, like a dent in an otherwise impenetrable fortress, and merely saving her life in return didn't feel like enough. It was all he could do though, so with one last check-up of his makeshift-tourniquet he shuffled back from the couch on stiff knees and climbed to his feet.

"Wait." Lucia's hand shot out at him again, once more grabbing his fingers. "You are... them aren't you? The – the evos from the news?"

At once panic clutched at Peter, his chest constricted and the fresh bruise there throbbed. How did she recognise them?! This was the first time he'd been confronted like this out on the field, and seeing as the reception for his and Sylar's good deeds was still generally mixed in favour, he had no idea how to act or even what to anticipate –

But then that surge of panic receded when the kindly woman squeezed his hand. "Thank you. For all that you are doing."

Rendered speechless, Peter felt heat flush his cheeks. Her words embraced his heart more than he could possibly express, especially considering she was the first person to thank him and Sylar for their contributions to the world, and even more so because she likely knew this.

His throat strained his voice until it escaped him as nothing more than a deep whisper. "You don't have to thank us." For the first time, Peter's face warmed into a full, heartfelt smile that brightened his eyes. It was as simple as that, those two little words, to validate all the shit that accompanied devoting his life to this cause. Even though it was an uphill battle, even though at times it was tempting to just throw in the towel, it was the moments like this one that made Peter keep doing what he did. To know he was making a positive impact even to just one person within a crowd of hundreds.

"What is your name?" Lucia asked huskily, watching him like he was the most intriguing thing on the planet.

Peter wanted to tell her. He really did. Instead he just squeezed her hand again before slipping free, nodding at her arm. "Try not to move it too much." He hesitated for a last, lingering glance to make sure she'd taken his advice, then crept out of the alcove with a light glowing in his chest, one that could withstand the harsh fear and tide of the upcoming battle. Yes, it helped to save one person at a time... but that didn't mean Peter would stop for even one minute while the waiting list before him was endless.

( )

What the fuck? The man from the paintings laughed and Sylar could feel his throat move under his palm. He looked over the fucking, too-familiar visage again but it didn't make any more sense than last time. It was definitely the same guy Peter had painted over and over until Sylar was practically dreaming of him: it wasn't a lookalike or a sibling because every single inch of his face was the same – even down to the neatly maintained goatee! There was no way this guy had picked himself up, walked off his bruises and repaired the scorch marks in his suit in order to be all the way over here now. Not even regeneration was capable of that.

"How are you doing this?" He demanded, leaning down over his captive so his face hovered above the other's. It irritated him, this fault in the form of this man's impossible arrival. It was as if one of Sylar's time pieces was missing vital parts but could still tell the time to perfection – it just shouldn't happen! In tandem with his natural curiosity and confusion, the emotionally frayed superhuman might have noticed his core ability leaking through him in order to join the party...

The unmasked man's smirk grew. He was much too calm for this situation and that, too, sent warning bells clanging through Sylar. "Aren't you the one who's supposed to know how things work? You tell me."

Another lash of confusion slapped across the watchmaker, only serving to disorient him so much more. He'd never met this guy before. How did he know Sylar's ability...?

It was all backwards – the victim trapped against the table wasn't breaking a sweat, whereas the interrogator who held all the power was stripped of his influence. The dark man laughed again, a smug, gravelly sound that matched his smug, gravelly voice. "Yes. I know who you are."

Sylar narrowed his eyes and flexed his fingers into the guy's throat, trying in vain to mask his flaking vulnerability. Those bells were chiming through him like the alarm back at the oil rig, and as much as Sylar knew he ought to shut this fucker up before he could deal any more damage with his monologue, a carnal part of him needed to understand first.

"They said you were ruthless. Powerful. But that's not what I see."

Sylar's legs lost feeling, his mind whizzed a mile a minute and he held himself bending over the table with all his weight congregating in his trembling hand. 'They'...? The captive wasn't panicked in the slightest, as if he didn't even care what happened to him next.

"They said you were like me. Someone who's not afraid to hurt people to get what he wants. A killer."

A growl ripped its way from Sylar's throat without his consent and he curled down further so his nose almost brushed the other man's. He was shaking all over again, fuelled by guilt, disorientation and fury fused together and forcing his hand. "They're wrong!" He snarled, and slammed his powerless victim's head down against the table hard enough to knock him out –

But the blow didn't knock him out. No. Instead it shook that self-satisfied look off his face and drew a groan from his lips. Then his whole being fell limp, shuddered, and crumbled into nothing more than a pile of grey dust.

And Sylar's heart stopped.

...SHIT! What the fuck?! No! No, NO! Suddenly wracked with tremors, sick to his stomach, he scrambled off the table and backed away from the last trace of what used to be a living human being. All rage evaporated completely, leaving only terror and perplexity in its wake.

What ability did he have that could disintegrate people that he didn't even know about?! It didn't make sense and it chilled him to the bone, the thought – no, the knowledge – that in the instant before that man had disappeared, Sylar hadn't been keeping his powers in check like usual.

He couldn't even think it... after eight years of slow, agonizing redemption he did not just kill someone by accident...

Horror and regret threatened to choke him like bile and tears formed in his eyes before he could stop them. It was all so quick, so sudden, and there was nobody to witness it and nobody to comfort him, nothing but the guilt and pain that tore his ribcage to shreds and weakened his knees and –

Everything stopped.

Sylar didn't draw breath. He didn't shake even a millimetre more. Silence was deafening inside this cavern, pressing down on the world worse than it had in a certain nightmare city because even the wind outside had ceased.

For a moment there was nothing at all but this frozen snapshot of time. Until quiet footsteps sounded on the carpet and a young time-traveller with his hair in his face and bloody handprints smeared over his shirt rounded the far end of the slot machines.

( )

Peter breathed easier at setting eyes on Sylar. He recognised the man instantly even from afar, the lines of his lean form too ingrained in his consciousness by now. Even from here the empath could tell that he was alive and well, thank god (and lacking in any sign that he'd had to rely on regeneration to be so). He'd gotten here just in time it seemed: two more masked assailants up ahead were caught in the process of trying to sneak up on the most powerful man in the world, and Peter was sure he'd just spared them some pretty nasty boo-boos.

He crossed the frozen world almost contently. It was impossible not to feel at peace when slipping between the forbidden sheets of time on any day, but reuniting with his friend was even more comforting than usual after his heart to heart with Lucia had left his vulnerabilities raw and seeking solace. With everything still, everything silent, and himself and Sylar about to finally obtain the upper hand in the scenario, Peter just couldn't help but feel more relaxed.

That was, until he finally noted the other man's expression.

"Sylar...?" He breathed, even though nobody could hear him. Concerned, he jogged the last few steps until he reached his friend's side.

Any semblance of a peaceful air faded entirely upon closer inspection of the man's twisted eyebrows, open mouth and haunted, glistening eyes. He was staring at his hands as if he was sickened by them, but when Peter checked there seemed to be no injury there. This guy here couldn't possibly have been more different than the tall, strong and imposing figure who had dived single-handedly into a fight against twenty people the last time Peter Petrelli had seen him.

So what the hell had happened in his absence...? Truly worried now, Peter tried his best to wipe Lucia's blood off his hands before taking hold of his companion and preparing to steady his transition out of time.

( )

Sylar gasped for breath and was sure he was going to throw up because of what he'd just done – he'd hurt! He'd killed! It was all his fault! – then though the blurry haze suddenly there were warm arms around him and a gentle voice crooning into his ear.

"Easy... easy... you're alright, buddy... it's okay..."

It took a moment for Sylar to realise that everything was still and quiet and that time had stopped around him. Then again he felt sick. Ugly. Filthy. And unmeasurably grateful to see Peter. He wanted to burst into poisonous tears and tried to voice his all-consuming sickness, but nothing came out even when he moved his lips. The best he could do was grab a fistful of the empath's sleeve and blink rapidly at the person-shaped coating of dust that was still powdered across the games table.

"What happened?" Peter coaxed quietly. His hand was steady against Sylar's back and his eyes burned into his face after regarding the leftovers of the man from the paintings. "Sylar? Tell me what happened."

"I – I dunno! I dunno what happened! He just... I just..."

"What're you talking about?" Again, Peter followed the watchmaker's line of sight before returning more intensely than before. When Sylar tried to struggle the little man adjusted himself toe to toe with him, two hands appeared on his shoulders and then worried, hazel eyes blocked the rest of the scene from Sylar's view. "Hey, calm down, alright? Talk to me."

"...It's..."

Truly shaken, he tried his best to haul himself back together. He ducked out of Peter's hold, cleared his throat and inched closer to the table, dragging the empath along with him by the arm. He couldn't afford to let go of him in case he never came back once he heard... once he knew.

"It was him. The guy from the paintings – he – he was there and then he wasn't, he was fine... I didn't do anything... I didn't mean to..."

"What?"

( )

Chills crawled over Peter's skin like a thousand tiny insects. So Sylar was saying he did this? It spawned connotations he didn't even want to consider on his friend's behalf.

With a nasty feeling settling in the pit of his stomach, Peter finally realised what that dust used to be. Who it used to be. Trying not to overreact, he cast his eyes over the stuff while Sylar continued to mumble and tug his already ruined shirt sleeve out of shape. What kind of ability could even do this to someone?! Who could just disappear like that without teleporting?! Peter couldn't recall ever encountering such a thing before! ...Unless...

With difficulty, he managed to disentangle himself from Sylar's grasp and hurried over to the two would-be-sneaky gunmen. Hope gurgling in his chest, he fumbled with the first one's mask to find –

( )

"He's a duplicator!"

Sylar was wrenched out of thoughts of sin and hell and floating grey dust by Peter's declaration. His head snapped up to see the little man holding two empty masks in his hand, standing between... god fucking damn it!

Crossing back to Sylar with eyes scanning every inch of his face, Peter continued. "Like that guy in Matt's basement." Both men once more dropped their gaze onto the remnant of a clone dirtying the games table. Oh, thank god...

Relief drenched Sylar like a bucket of cool water on a sweltering summer's day. He understood now, the pieces clicked into place and all at once he was more grateful than he could ever say. Feeling returned slowly to his limbs in angry pins and needles as he shook himself out of his dazed stupor. Licking dry lips, he didn't meet Peter's eyes. He could tell that the empath knew exactly what had just happened to him, what he had just experienced, and while the comfort wasn't unwelcome, now was not the time or place for Sylar to lose his head or let embarrassment best him.

So he distanced himself from Peter by dragging his numb feet over to the other duplicates. "Oh... That explains a lot, actually." He mumbled. There it was as plain as day: the target was a duplicating man. Which meant that Sylar hadn't just broken his no-murdering streak. Suddenly he felt stupid for getting into such a state when the answer seemed painfully obvious in hindsight, but the thought of what might have been was still echoing through him deeper than he would have imagined.

Just looking at the duplicator's uncovered, frozen face made Sylar want to punch him for causing such a scare. He refrained though, just barely.

"How do we take them all down?" Peter appeared again at his shoulder, as if unwilling to stay more than two steps away from his fragile friend. Sylar appreciated this. And the fact that Peter was valiantly trying to continue with the mission without stopping for a therapy session.

"We find the prime." He said almost automatically, voice hollow. It was as if this plan had been just waiting to announce itself to him without Sylar's own knowledge, but he had to admit that the logic was sound. Why round up nine more bad guys when attacking the source would take them all down? Still slightly stunned, he went through the motions with a methodical ease that came to him naturally.

Sylar called dancing veins of white blue light to crawl above and around his hand, the electrical crackling suddenly very loud in the otherwise silent world. He was reaching his ability towards the first clone's shoulder when Peter finally caught onto the plan at a winning pace.

"Wait -" He snapped, fingers grabbing onto Sylar's arm and smudging bloody prints over the good fabric. It should have annoyed him, but instead that small bit of normalcy (Peter being shocked at electrocuting even a shooter, and his utter disregard for formal wear) helped to recall more of Sylar's natural state of mind.

He peered down with a curved eyebrow, faking more superiority than he truly felt. Displaying authority had always been good for knocking some sense back into him. "We only have to hurt them enough to get rid of them, Peter. If it's the real him it won't kill him, and the others... they won't even feel it." He said it matter-of-factly, secretly hoping that last was true.

He waited, watching the other man's face struggle with this decision before his grip slipped away. Sylar hesitated briefly (just making sure Peter was done with his moral dilemma and not at all because he needed a moment himself) before grabbing a handful of the clone's shoulder and sending currents of electricity ripping through him, stronger than any of his previous attacks so far. He pretended it didn't make him feel ill to watch the guy float to the floor as nothing more than a pile of dust, or more so for the second one.

"Come on..." Peter said quietly, cupping Sylar's elbow and guiding him away from the chilling sight of three smoking piles of dust. Rationally, the watchmaker knew the duplicates weren't real. He hadn't had an issue dealing with the ones from the Sullivan Brother's Carnival way back when, and this was no different than that! Or at least, it shouldn't have felt any different.

Sylar meekly allowed his companion to lead him on through the games floor, the colours suddenly poking too brightly at his eyes, the room suddenly stretching out for miles. He tried but failed to claw back the passion driving his mission from earlier, and instead found himself wishing they could just get the job done as simply as possible and call it a day.

( )

Of course the cashier cage was the furthest point in the room.

Here, too, everything was caught mid-action, a living photograph captured in the faintest breath between seconds. On such a quiet afternoon at the Linderman Casino there weren't many staff members behind the desk: only three people were huddled on the floor with their hands over their heads, and one woman was frozen midway through a sob as she pushed money through the mesh of the cage that was supposed to keep her safe. Notes had fluttered to a stop in the air, a green paper arc splayed towards another tall, dark and intimidating figure and his oh-so-familiar choice of weapon.

Silently, unnoticed by all, Peter and Sylar approached the assailant with raw affliction etched upon both faces. The former paramedic felt dislike roil through him anew upon reaching his destination, taking in the gunman's arrogant stance and the cashier's terror. The son of a bitch didn't even look conflicted.

Clenching his jaw, he pried the gun from the guy's clutches and dropped it to the carpet at the side, then locked eyes with Sylar across the statue. Neither of them spoke because there was nothing more to say, just a job that needed doing. Peter felt his heart clench tighter for his friend when he saw the slight tremor in his hand before electricity cloaked it. He wished he could offer to share the burden without ruining the plan or stranding them in time. He wished he could ease the alarm from the first unmasked duplicator without Sylar second-guessing himself anyway.

Peter swallowed the uncomfortable lump in his throat when the flickering ability was pressed to this duplicator's shoulder.

This was the point when all the others had disappeared. When dust had floated to the floor and the duo had shouldered their reservations and moved on in desperate hopes that there really was a prime to find after all. But this time, when Elle Bishop's favourite teasing device zapped the target, all that happened was that his good suit jacket was adorned by a charred, slightly smoking handprint.

( )

Sylar doubted he'd imagined Peter's relieved exhalation sounding in time with his own. Okay, good. So this was the end of it. Just as well, because Charles' penthouse and luxury bathtub had never seemed so appealing. Even though Sylar knew all the soap in the world couldn't cleanse the grime of history away.

Now that they had reached the final goal, he took his time to absorb the scenario in its entirety. It was clear almost right away that the duplicating man had not thought this through well. Firstly: the prime put himself in the most obvious position in the field; secondly: he attempted to hold up a cashier's desk when the casino was far below full; and thirdly: he had no bag or suitable means of either getting or transporting large amounts of cash after a robbery.

The whole thing was very haphazardly staged, now that Sylar examined it. A detective peering over his crime scene, he pieced together the clues to try to form a picture of the scenario. Everything about the duplicator just irked Sylar. Why was it that nothing about him seemed to make sense? Why did he choose to rob a dwindling casino when in Las Vegas of all places?! Why did he have the gun and outfit of a formidable bad guy, yet fumble his way around as if he was making it all up as he went along...? He clearly wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.

Clearing his throat, Sylar shook himself and feigned more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. "Alright, Peter: search Einstein for anything informative, and I'll find something to restrain him with..."

"Right."

Sylar left Peter to his own devices with the prime, and crossed to what looked like yet another fallen security guard. Poor schmuck. Judging by his holstered weapon he had no idea what hit him. Sylar crouched next to the unconscious man, rolling him over carefully in search of handcuffs or another restraining device, but faltered when his fingers brushed –

"Sylar..."

( )

Peter grit his teeth and fished the incriminating item out of the duplicator's inside pocket. He knew what it was upon first glance. He'd recognise that abstract, red-hued "R" anywhere by now. Frowning, he turned to share his findings with his partner in crime.

An identity badge: M.F. Harris. Renautas.

His grim expression was mirrored on Sylar's face, which wasn't unexpected. What was, however, was the matching Renautas ID badge recovered from the unconscious "security guard". Confusion curled itself around the smaller man slowly as Sylar returned to his side, spinning handcuffs on his forefinger.

"One of us, one of them?" Peter asked, struggling to keep up with this new, disconcerting information. "They were working together?" So it wasn't just Angela breaking the new company's "honourable" rules by recruiting Francis Culp. There went that flimsy hope. Clearly Renautas weren't just kidnapping evos anymore, as if that wasn't bad enough... "To – what, though? Rob a casino? Why would they even do that?"

( )

Despite himself, Sylar couldn't help but latch onto Peter's glacial thought process as something familiar and reassuring. He huffed out a tiny laugh as he clicked one cuff around Harris Prime's frozen, outstretched wrist. "I don't think our friends here were exactly seeing eye-to-eye. Here, help me with him..."

Together, the men worked to push the static, dead weight of their bulky captive across the carpet. They grunted with the effort, Sylar resisting the urge to just shove and roll the guy like a cut log, until the empty cuff snicked shut around one of the bars of the cashier cage.

Sylar fixed his good shirt while Peter swiped his hair out his face and turned questioning eyes to him, breathing heavily. "So – what does that mean? He defected?"

"Well I don't think he was here on a work night out, do you? He must've turned on the others."

Again, the former villain swept his gaze around the scene, his mind stroking over everything he'd encountered so far within this room. All security were down before the first gunshot or duplicates occurred: that meant the other Renautas agents were in on it. But none of them – although they'd definitely been on the scene enough to have accompanied the prime all the way to the hold up point – had been involved in the rounding up or scaring of civilians, or at least none that Sylar had come across: which meant that Harris had taken out his teammates too. That little detail probably wasn't part of the original plan. Factoring in his hastily prepared looting, it was most likely the duplicator's actions had just been a spontaneous act of rebellion mid-mission. But that still didn't account for a Renautas team lurking in Linderman's casino of all places during an afternoon shift.

Unless they knew that something was going to happen. Unless they were waiting for someone to show up...

"It was a trap." Peter realised, affronted.

"Yes. It was a trap." Sylar concurred, hating that the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. So Bennet's latest plan had failed. Technically. But the watchmaker couldn't help but feel he hadn't emerged from this attempt unscathed.

He and Peter were as safe as they could ever possibly be right now – they technically didn't even exist in time at the moment – but still somehow he thought he could feel gazes upon him. Angry gazes. Disembodied gazes. Knowing gazes.

They'd wandered far from the remains of the first revealed clone, yet Sylar's vision could pinpoint the exact location beyond the forest of machines and tables. He couldn't shake the harrowing sensation of being absolutely certain that he'd killed again... the clamminess clung to him like dust from the victim itself, no matter how many others he'd disposed of after. It wasn't even the fact that he'd dissolved mindless duplicates of a man who didn't suffer from their extermination that was freaking him out, still. It was the unmistakeable dawning that, even though he didn't want to... technically, Sylar could, potentially,still murder.

His abilities were gifts. Weapons. Abominations. They were wonderful and they were awful. They were a part of his anatomy, welded to his core like sinew to bone, and even if he didn't call on them... they were still there. All it took was one wrong move, one second of distraction by a duplicating moron to cause a lapse in control and everything could be ruined.

Sylar shivered and rubbed at his untimely goosebumps, looking sightlessly out over the expanse of the games floor. It had only been a clone. Not a person. It hadn't been murder. Nobody had died, thank god. But for the first time since embarking on his very first mission with Peter by his side, the awareness was there...

That maybe next time he slipped up, he wouldn't be so lucky.

( )

A trap. A goddamned trap! Feeling his chest expand in defensiveness, Peter glared at the duplicating man from up close, outraged by everything he'd done in their name. Suddenly he remembered what his first attacker had said, and this time it made sense. 'You're not even worth all this...'

Could Noah stoop any lower in his attempts to round them up?! Maybe if he put as much time into the tragedies that Peter and Sylar were stopping as he wasted in trying to catch them, then there wouldn't be any tragedies left to worry about! Peter seethed, chewing his tongue so hard it was painful. He was just so angry at Noah, and just fucking wished the guy could put a stop to his relentless tail! Now it was beyond annoying, insulting and demoralising – now it was getting dangerous! Not just to himself and Sylar, no, but to innocent civilians caught in the crossfire! Shit. Even the act of helping Lucia was rendered null and void, because now Peter realised that he was inadvertently responsible for her wound and any others that might have been sustained during the event that was crafted to result in his capture!

God, he wanted to punch Noah right in the horn rims. He wanted to shout at him to stop being so careless, and to finally throw a wrench in the gears of his operation before something truly perilous came to pass because of it! There was no way that Peter and Sylar's relationship was worth this much effort to outsiders. No way. Sure, none of them approved, they all thought Peter had cracked or worse, but that was not a justifiable excuse! It was probably just fucking pride keeping Mr Bennet's wheels oiled and spinning, but what pride that would endanger others was even worth preserving in the first place...?!

He was far from ready to go home for a quiet night of leftovers, TV and nightmares, but for now there was nothing else to be done. Sure, he'd got himself all worked up for a fight for justice, but they'd already apprehended the bad guy here. They'd practically left him gift-wrapped to be found by his parent corporation, and now the heroes had done their duty and had no more business here.

"We'd better get back." He said lowly, tearing his gaze from Harris Prime.

"...Yes..."

Teleporting while in this frame of mind would probably end up with them in the middle of the stone age or something, so Peter fought to compose himself and breathe out all the venom coursing inside. Which was astoundingly easier to do once he turned his attention to his friend at his side.

Sylar still looked shaken from before, was still acting weird, and Peter's heart ached for the guy. He could actually feel how bad a scare that had been, and suddenly Noah Bennet was the last thing on this empathetic man's mind.

"Hey..." He murmured, shuffling closer to the recovering killer "You alright?" He asked, slipping a hand onto the centre of Sylar's back. It wasn't much, and it certainly wouldn't make everything better, but if Peter's caring instincts were correct and Sylar was possibly about to succumb to his experience, then at least a small comfort was better than none at all.

He watched with a knot in his throat as his usually so emotionally maintained ally jumped at the touch. Sylar blinked round eyes before visibly hauling himself back into one piece. He smiled and Peter accepted the effort although the gesture itself wouldn't fool anyone.

"I'm fine." There was a pause, as if he was trying to think of a joke or a witty one liner to hammer that point home, but came up with nothing. "Lets just go home."

Peter nodded, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. There would be time to return to this later if Sylar wanted to. And if not, then Peter would oblige and let it lie. "Okay."

Home. It probably was the best remedy for a mission of this calibre. But somehow Peter doubted Charles' penthouse with its firewood smell and bright windows would welcome them in as warmly as it had after yesterday's successful outing.

He held his hand out, palm up, but again the taller man was more engrossed in the distant table on which he'd really thought he'd killed someone. The bruise devouring Peter's ribs twinged again.

"Sylar." He prompted gently, unwilling to just grab the guy and leave if he wasn't quite ready to go.

This time when Sylar turned back, he didn't look at Peter or bother with pretences or fake smiles. His forehead was furrowed and his eyes heavy, and when his hand grasped Peter's it was cold and sweaty. The teleporter waited for another moment, stole another pocket of endless time, but his friend didn't do or say anything to protest their departure. So finally he closed his eyes and concentrated.

Squeezing Sylar's fingers, he carried them both away from this place while commanding the sands of time to flow freely once more.

When the casino burst back into action – the paper notes completed their fluttering descent to the ground; the sole assailant found himself suddenly shackled to the cage, weaponless and unable to escape; and the dizzy-headed Renautas agents climbed to their feet to find the place unharmed – the two time travellers who had protected it all were gone. As if they'd never been there at all.

( )( )( )

So much for the secret weapon.

The only outward sign that Mr Bennet was pissed off was that he rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses, while his knuckles whitened around the tablet in his other hand. Aside from this, he was confident that the swearing tantrum inside, begging to spill forth, was imperceptible to the Renautas guards nearby.

He stood alone in the concrete corridor, divided from the disconcerting scene by a large window of bulletproof glass. It was dark down here despite sickly overhead lighting and a glowing number 6 mounted on the wall. The next level down... one step deeper into the ground, one step deeper into classified matters.

Strangely, Noah didn't feel like he was standing in the bowels of his old corporation. He could feel the new owner's touch wiping away the dust and oiling the rusty hinges of the building... i.e. overriding the character of the place that he had come to know and love. The rebuild of Primatech's old headquarters as a Renautas facility was favourable, of course. But it wasn't only a job of cleaning up the exploded walls burned cinder left behind by Meredith Gordon. No. It was a rebirth. One that Noah was beginning to feel he had no say in whatsoever.

His horn-rimmed glasses glinted coldly as he watched his failed new recruit be shepherded into his cell, then the guards set about ensuring there were no potential sharp objects for M.F. Harris to summon more of his buddies with.

"Now why'd you have to go and pull a stunt like that...?" He mumbled at Harris wistfully, disappointment striking him all over again.

Damn him.

Money always did it. Money and the promise of safety (or, alternatively, the threat of danger should they disobey), and money had been promised in spades to this low-life when they'd scooped him off the streets, along with quick ascension through the ranks and a shiny new badge to pin to his chest. Everything at the casino had been set out to perfection: cause enough of a stir to draw the targets, have agents waiting in the wings and as many expendable duplicates as it could possibly take to overthrow Peter and Sylar... it would have worked. Noah knew it would have worked. He'd gone over almost everything. But the one thing he hadn't been counting on was his pawn forming a mind of his own and thinking he could back out of their arrangement with a gun he couldn't use properly and a few thousand dollars in stolen cash.

As if he could escape Renautas so easily... as if he could escape the circumstance of his own species. No innocents were supposed to get hurt – wasn't that the whole point of rounding up the two most dangerous evos?! – but of course now there were injured civilians to add to Noah's overladen conscience. He felt ridiculous for having actually felt positive about this plan earlier... what a gutting let down.

He locked eyes with Harris through the glass wall, his steely glare rivalled spectacularly by the evo who clearly didn't want to be here anymore. Pity it was too late to do anything about that.

At least some good news had made its way to Noah today: Angela's "old friend" had finally got his finger out and showed up for duty. A familiar face was welcome amongst these old halls, Noah had to admit, but the accompanying attitude wasn't. However, right now this tired, miserable agent needed all the help he could get for his undertaking. He needed more than just one star player in his arsenal.

Agent Stevens' clumsy footsteps approached before the guy himself appeared at Noah's side, wheezing slightly. The co-workers stood together, overlooking their dashed hopes in the form of the duplicating man, both left to salvage the stinking shit that they'd stirred up together. For a second Noah envied his subordinate and his alibi of simply being a tech assistant. He wished he could pass the blame onto someone of a superior rank, but gone were the days...

Stevens checked over a document on the shining screen of his tablet, gracefully neglecting the mess of Noah's latest bright idea. "Are we not sending him to the lab with the others?"

Mr Bennet ground out a sigh. This bruise on his ego was still a fresh one. "No. Erica wants him here. She insisted he's to be trained up then put back out on the field... she thinks he has "potential"."

Stevens' tone perfectly recaptured the surprise and unease that had hit Noah when he'd been given the order. "And what do you think?"

Hmmm... what did Noah think about it? Maybe that Harris should take the fall for his disobedience; that he shouldn't be spared the treatment that lesser evos had endured just because the boss fancied his ability by her side; that he should face the consequences for letting Peter Petrelli and Sylar slip through his fingers and making Noah look like a fool yet again! Just the idea of how many more drawings of a future come to pass that now needed to be shifted over to the "failure" pile set Noah's teeth on edge.

There was a lot he could have said in response to Stevens' query. There was a lot he could have said in response to Erica Kravid's shark-like smile when she'd sent him on his way to babysit his latest mistake. But Noah Bennet had never been one to crack a light about his true feelings when working.

"...I think I need more allies I can trust. I think I need a partner on the field who's capable. Who knows exactly how the game is played."

Since when did Noah fall into the category of mindless minion? Following orders and being bossed about were two very different things, and lately Erica was really pushing the divide. So she could change the rules on a whim, could she? Screw about with Noah's itinerary and job description however she saw fit to further humiliate him with his perceived negligence?

For there were far too many instances of that now. Literally a whole wall of them next door like a goddamned art gallery on proud display. This was beyond ridiculous, and if Harris' insubordination had been good for anything, it was in giving Noah the guts to finally step out on his own to get the job done on his terms. Because if Erica was kissing goodbye to the rules outlined in Noah's job description, then he saw no reason why he couldn't take her up on her own game.

"See if you can set up a meeting." He drawled, voiding the "unauthorised" warning branded across the document on his tablet screen. Agent Stevens let out a blatant hum of appreciation when Noah passed him the device and he saw who's record was on display.

"It would be my pleasure..."

Mr Bennet rubbed at his itchy eyes again as Stevens departed. He was left alone with only his regrets, desperate hopes, and the disgraced duplicator in the depths of Level 6, Renautas, Primatech Headquarters, Odessa.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! In this chapter I wanted to explore a more introspective slant on a mission, which is why we get more of our boys' thoughts and feelings in quieter moments over witnessing every moment of epic Sylar butt-kicking action hehe X)

I wish there didn't have to be a break between part 1 and 2 of the casino scene, but I definitely think it was for the best to split those chapters in terms of word count, right?! Hope you think this was worth the wait, anyway! (Btw, M.F. Harris is a character in Heroes Reborn. I take no credit for creating him, just for incorporating him into the story ^.^)

Please go and check out my new fan art for this story if you haven't already, done in collaboration with Yajanele, who coloured the piece beautifully! If you've stuck with me this far into the story then I'm sure you'll recognise the scene: it's available over on AO3 under "My Gallery" on my account - "FieryEclipse"