Old Friends

Computer keys clacked in the otherwise dead studio. It was the only sound that competed with the honking of car horns and pedestrian babble from the streets far below.

Micah Sanders used manual coding alongside a soothing whisper of technopathic requests to leapfrog the firewalls and slip through unburied loopholes in Renautas' design, getting a comfortable feel of the scope of their system. Hunched over his laptop, buried in a fort of messy blankets on Isaac's old, creaky bed, the young boy shook his curls out his eyes and cracked his knuckles. Everything was in place, he was excited to note: he'd charmed Renautas' security system over to his side already, the channels were open and awaiting his command, and the two unmistakable figures called up on his screen from the parking lot camera were infiltrating their way towards the building, matching stride for stride and never straying further from the other than they could reach.

Micah took a second to smile at them. At their passion. Their bravery. Peter Petrelli and Sylar. He was grateful just to be able to work with them: the hero and the redeemed villain, the only two people he had ever encountered who had already died for their plight and still wouldn't be conquered. Too many heroes had been lost over Micah's short life. Although he wouldn't admit so aloud, it was a comfort to know that his new friends couldn't join the likes of the others despite dying. Which was probably just as well, because they likely would sacrifice themselves again without a second thought – although that wouldn't be today, if Micah had anything to say about it.

He didn't know what was going to happen in there. Or what to do if the plan didn't work. But he did know, without any trace of doubt, that he couldn't have chosen a better two candidates for the job.

( )( )( )

It was, without a doubt, the best coffee machine in the whole of Texas. Noah Bennet couldn't remember how he'd ever used to survive without the elixir it provided. Not cheap, watery stuff masquerading as the treasured substance, but real, rich coffee that, even when available at the touch of a button, could warm you to the core even on the toughest of days.

Renautas' spacious staff lounge was currently quiet, almost empty, which coincidentally happened to be how Noah liked it best. He stood by the towering windows embedded the height of the wall, allowing the bubbling and brewing of the forthcoming beverage at his side to soothe him. This coffee machine had to be the best gadget that the technological giant of his employers had invested in. Better than the data tablets they insisted Noah learn how to use, better than the impenetrable security system that had cost many a taxpayer's dollar. At any rate, it was just about the only thing in the redesign of Primatech HQ that didn't make Noah long for the previous version.

Such as the interior design of this place, for example. Aside from suffering serious caffeine withdrawal, Noah's head was pounding under the blinding Texas sunset and the embarrassing failure of the recent casino job. Oh yeah, it had certainly helped his case in the eyes of his boss... he could still recall her hooked brows and pursed lips with clarity. All he craved right now was a quiet, dark place to gather his thoughts for half an hour, but level 6 was hardly relaxing, and everywhere else in the entire building seemed to be coated in glass and gleaming white ceramic. So this bright, open-plan, communal space would have to suffice.

Noah ignored the ongoing transformation of the old building at his back, barely able to recognise the halls he'd spent over twenty years of his life roaming. They'd come a long way from wood-panelled walls and a simple key pad on the door, alright. Gone were the false paper facilities that masked the real goings on of the Company, no longer were there meticulously placed props and deceptions to mislead any visitors in the surface levels and warehouse, and Noah understood why. There was no reason to hide the company's involvement in evo welfare when the logo literally spelled it out for the world to see. But did they really have to rebuild the old place to look like a shiny, sleek dentist's office or a modern art gallery? He had already lost count of the amount of times he'd almost sat on what he thought was some backless, armless, abstract piece of "furniture", only to discover he could've broken an expensive new piece of tech.

Thank the heavens he'd found this coffee maker in the midst of it all. And the one and only comfortable seat in the entirety of the staff quarters. God knows he needed them more and more each day.

The blessed hunk of machinery finally gurgled into silence. Noah scooped his burning cup from its clutches, carrying it over to the corner of one L-shaped couch – the best chair in the house. The fabric squeaked as the middle aged man sank into it, cradling his coffee like the life source it was. As the beverage warmed his bones, Noah took advantage of this break to gaze out the windows at the view he still knew by heart.

It was Texas. Odessa. Kissed by the amber light of sunset.

This was the place he'd lived longest in his entire life. Where he'd re-married, built his career, raised his family... he never imagined he'd live here without them. The landscape had barely changed in all these years. If he blanked the details of the immediate environment, Noah could easily be sitting in this spot after a quiet shift below stacks of decorative paper, preparing to head home and help a thirteen year old Claire with her math homework. It really wasn't so long ago. Even now, Noah could almost smell Sandra's questionable cooking greeting him at the door, see the smiles on his family's faces as he called out to them, feel their hugs and kisses that used to make everything worthwhile... It was easy to forget about the countless lies that had ruined it all.

The creamy drink steamed up Noah's glasses and helped keep his feelings subdued, spreading silkily across the angry wounds and callouses marking a life well lived. Odessa was home. This building more than the old house used to be, true, but now that was gone and so was his family, and when this was all that was left? He couldn't help but wonder about what might have been.

What if Claire had never jumped from that Ferris Wheel? What if the Company had never found out about her and they'd never had to move state? What if Sylar had never hunted her down and outed her ability in the first place...?! They could still be living a normal family life, right this second. Or, as normal as it had ever been, of course. Claire could be in college, not touring the country with the whole world watching her every move; Lyle could be passing his finals and heading the football team, not flunking out of school and refusing to have anything to do with his family; and Sandra could still be Noah's wife and not some other man's girlfriend...

A normal-ish family. A normal-ish life. It was nice to imagine. Not so nice to acknowledge everything he'd lost because of his career.

It would be easy to call it quits from this company that was outgrowing him, retire for good while he still held a scrap of pride and try to salvage what was left of his dwindling connections to the people he loved. And perhaps Noah would have done. If he didn't still care about his family as much as he always had.

He couldn't just turn his back on this current bastard of a mission and allow Angela Petrelli's dream to come true. If Peter Petrelli and Sylar reached their full, terrible potential, then forget a normal life for Noah and his family – forget anything at all! There would be no "normal", no "life", not even a world to mourn! Of course Noah had to do his best to protect the lives of billions of people all over the globe, even if everyone other than Angela was just humouring his failing efforts. But, most importantly, he still had a god-given duty to his family.

Despite the fact that Lyle, Sandra, Claire and even Mr Muggles didn't like him much at the moment, Noah would never stop doing what he could to keep them safe. Be that by lying and wiping their memories in the old days, or going up against Renautas' Most Wanted single-handedly in present day.

Noah sighed, swirled his emptying cup and removed his glasses to rub at tired eyes. At the very least, he wished it didn't have to be Peter in the firing line. He really did. The kid had been through enough already. Noah wished he could explain it, but how could he tell someone to surrender or they were going to end up destroying the world? He wished it was easy. He wished a lot of things. It didn't change what had happened and didn't change reality.

How much more of this relentless teasing could one man endure? How much failure? The reality was that, in the end, someone had to lose... and Noah was hell bent on ensuring that someone wasn't going to be him.

His fragile equilibrium was disturbed by scuffing footsteps crossing the lounge toward him.

"Bennet?"

"Stevens."

Renautas' brilliantly white décor seemed even brighter when Noah re-focused his attention onto the room. Wiping and replacing his famous horn rims, he plastered a smile over his thoughts, one nobody could ever hope to pry open.

Agent Stevens' face flickered with an emotion Noah could have gone without. "She's here."

Yes, Mr Bennet was practically now a laughing stock to his bosses and co-workers, but that didn't mean he was just going to lie down and play dead. Not this man. The man with the plan. And it was precisely the promise of his next course of action that helped ease the transition from failed father into company man ready for duty.

The seasoned agent mentally pried himself away from family dinners and movie nights and back into work-mode, dusting off the flakes of regret and neatening his tie. Downing the silken ends of his coffee, he cast one last look outside to where the sun was saying its final goodbyes before dipping below the horizon. He probably had a long night ahead of him in this facility that never slept. Perhaps, for once, it would be time well spent towards his cause? He dared to dream.

Standing and turning that practised smile upon his subordinate once more, Noah tried his best not to sound patronizing.

"Then send her up."

( )

Stevens didn't need telling twice. He span on his heel and trotted away from the staff lounge, more than eager to see Noah's next... appointment, again. It wasn't often that women like her graced these halls. That walk, the hidden smile at the corners of her mouth, the way her hair swished with every step... even the withering stare was welcome when it came from a face like that!

He was rudely interrupted from wondering how he could get Bennet to let him sit in on the meeting when he turned the corner, only to see the doors up ahead sliding closed without him.

Picking up the pace, Stevens hurried down the corridor. "Wait! Hold the elevator!"

Thud! A large, dark hand clasped around one door, prying it open to emit the already-out-of-breath analyst. Stevens jogged to a stop inside the elevated car, grateful that he didn't have to wait for the next one, be even later, or (god forbid) have to take the stairs.

This relief was short lived however, when he went to thank his saviour and found himself trapped inside a tiny metal box with only a towering, glowering man for company. ...Damn. Perhaps this would've been the last person he'd ever choose to encounter when no one could hear him scream, but Stevens hadn't spend a lifetime kissing asses for nothing.

Quickly recovering himself, the analyst turned his back on the unwanted company, tapped the touchpad on the wall and tried to settle in and look as casual as he would riding in a suspended cage with anyone else. He nodded to the man on his right as the doors slid closed. "Thank you, Mr Harris." And to the man on his left as the carriage dropped too slowly. "Mr Harris." Then he buried himself in this data tablet to avoid the duplicates' gazes, beyond caring what he was reading as long as he looked busy.

Now he may have been able to act nonchalant, but sweat was already beginning to bead along his brow just at sharing such close proximity with two copies of the dangerous evo who he had recruited to the job he was now trapped in and hated. As if only one of him wasn't intimidating enough!

Peeking at the reflection on the inside of the doors, Agent Stevens was both thankful and surprised to see the duplicates paying him no attention whatsoever. No, they were just staring at each other with an intensity that scalded the back of his neck like crippling sunburn.

( )

What the hell...?!

He couldn't stop gaping in disbelief. Unable to form his thoughts into a subtle expression, he simply glared at where the other Harris was both trying to silently apologise and not squirm without drawing attention from the third party in the room. It was so ridiculous, something so stupid and natural and clumsy that of course they would get this far past security, only to get busted because Peter Petrelli had to hold the door open for the enemy!

The three men stood in awkward silence as the elevator descended at a snail's pace. Sylar knew the other shape-shifter had realised his mistake a second too late, but still blamed him all the same. Inside M.F. Harris' form, the watchmaker had to physically struggle not to either hit his friend or explode with hysterical laughter. What a fantastic conclusion to their story! What a way to go! After all the murder, violence and running, in the end it could be manners that got the better of them...!

There was nothing they could do about it now though. They were past the point of no return, their hidden, teenage guardian was guiding them and they were too close to the goal to back out. Really, it was amazing that it had all gone so smoothly until now – that had never happened on a job before! And if they didn't have Micah on their side they'd have literally hit no less than twelve security barriers already so really, Sylar supposed, he should be grateful, right? It was about time something went wrong!

If he wasn't already uptight enough just from being back in this godforsaken building, this turn of events really plopped the cherry on top. But, unable to do anything without sacrificing the mission, Sylar's only course of action was to hope his and Peter's disguises held up, and wish to get the journey over and done with as soon as possible without any complications arising.

Complications such as, for example, this puny Renautas worker deciding to strike up a conversation with the two alarmed imposters. Brilliant.

( )

"So... Harris? How did it go?"

Feeling claustrophobic while wrapped up in layers of the old Primatech building, in the seemingly-shrinking elevator, not to mention within the skin of that bastard Harris, Peter only panicked further in response to the stranger's question.

He threw another furtive glance at Sylar-Harris, failing to maintain the composed characteristics they'd agreed to match in order to act like believable duplicates. What the hell were they supposed to do now?! Knock this guy out? Hide him until they'd been and gone? Hope nobody found them carrying an unconscious body around and count on Micah to later wipe the footage...? Peter would rather avoid that option if he could, but his frazzled senses weren't helping him out with any alternatives.

At his side, the watchmaker twitched one of M.F. Harris' eyebrows, and Peter was instantly comforted by such a Sylar-ish gesture on that hostile face.

"How d'you think?" The duplicator's deep voice curled into the air, sounding so authentic that Peter suppressed a shiver. By the looks of it, so did the older man standing in front of them.

"Ah. Gotcha." He laughed nervously. "Ms Kravid really has a way with people, doesn't she? But she can't have been that upset. She sent you back here, that's gotta be a good thing?"

Two pairs of identical eyes met again briefly. Peter didn't dare even blink. Was Sylar seriously about to bullshit their way out of this?

"Does it?"

"Oh!" The Renautas agent fake guffawed. "I... I suppose you have a point, there! I can never tell what she's thinking either. But I figure it's best to just nod along and stay in her good graces..." The stout man faded into silence and rocked on the balls of his feet, his discomfort so apparent that Peter could literally smell it. The stench hardly added to the fun of the current scenario, but at least it meant the heat wasn't only on the two fugitives freely wandering the bowels of their enemy's fortress. "I dunno about you, Harris, but I don't plan on saying the wrong thing and being shipped offshore with the – ah – ah – the, I mean, uh... hmmm..."

Stuttering to a stop, the man burned scarlet while both Peter and Sylar's jaws tensed. "Shipped offshore"? This "Kravid" woman...? Peter didn't like the sound of any of it. Especially not when he could do absolutely nothing about it without blowing his cover. Catching his reflection in the door, he guessed that if any expression he'd made so far was supposed to constitute as Harris', this emotionally constipated one had to be the most accurate.

( )

Sylar despised just the mention of anything to do with the organisation he was presently drowned in on all sides. The fact that the employees could chat so freely about the goings on, as if it was no more a big deal that arranging shipments of real Primatech paper, made his blood boil. Had it always been that way above basement level? Throughout everything that had happened down there...? Probably. It was enough for his abilities to begin flowing in the direction of his fingertips, even against his wishes.

Luckily for the Renautas agent, the elevator slid to a stop and the doors parted before anyone did anything unfortunate that they might regret later. The worker mumbled a hasty goodbye to Harris and practically pirouetted to freedom, his purple, sweaty head disappearing down the corridor. Sylar let out the tense breath he'd been holding. So that went well. At least they hadn't been revealed! No thanks to someone...

The instant the doors closed over and the elevator continued its descent, the ex-murderer turned to his mirror image, eyes slightly seething.

"'Hold the elevator?' Jesus, Peter."

"I'm sorry – I didn't think – I just..." The other man trailed off, shrugging shyly with large, guilty eyes shining through the facade. He looked so unlike Harris that the guy beneath was on clear display for all to see. And although Sylar wanted to stay angry, and although he was extremely aware of where he was and what was no doubt racing to meet them head on, he couldn't help it: he started laughing.

The sound was unfamiliar. Even though it came from within the motherfucker Harris, it was a nice remedy for the severity of this mission. It was allowed in this small box only, where nobody and nothing could get to them. Guilt faded from the second Harris' face, only to be replaced by a patient, half-grudging acquiescence. He still looked like Peter Petrelli, the man's kind heart and goodness too bright to be hidden even behind such a mask. It reassured and sobered Sylar at the same time.

He looked at his equally stressed out companion, forcing the smile to fall from his lips. "You look too nice, Peter. You better fix that." He was unable not to enjoy the indignant expression that erased Peter's previous one, then the replacement one of concentration, then finally a strong, steady grimace that worked perfectly for this ruse.

But then the elevator slowed once again. And the temperature definitely dropped. The slight reprieve ended with a ping and the doors brushed apart, the duo finding themselves staring down a dark, concrete tunnel with blacked out windows at either side. The only thing left to enjoy down here was the sickening sensation of dread.

( )

The corridor was empty. Bare and cold and yawning out ahead until darkness consumed the weak overhead lights in the distance. There was nothing in sight yet Peter shivered, affected by everything but the chill. He couldn't believe they'd made it all the way here so fast. Only one more barrier stood in the way of the fated cell block, the end of the line.

The two evos didn't move a muscle. They barely even breathed. Both knew the second they set foot outside the elevator there was no going back. Peter could feel it tugging at him from the darkness: apprehension. Drawing him in deeper like wading through a tide. He knew without even looking beside him that Sylar could feel it too.

How could this place be so familiar, even though it had been years since he had even been close? So many horrors had transpired within these walls... murder, insanity, imprisonment within the body of a dangerous criminal, to name a few personal examples. Even just standing here, Peter could feel the memories clinging to his face and neck like clammy hands luring him under. Now that they had made it this far, and even though Peter knew it was all his own stupid idea, he wasn't so sure he even wanted to find out what kind of horrors would greet them on the other side of the next door.

Well... he'd gotten what he wanted, alright. To get into the enemy's base. Somewhere out there was the way to put an end to Renautas' success, or at least slow it down for a while, and it was important that they do this...! Besides, it was a little late to have second thoughts.

Peter knew that Sylar was still suffering from his scare back at the casino. It had affected his confidence like the lingering affects of a virus, he could feel the weakened chinks in the chain that the other man usually held taut and impenetrable when it came to the point of action. So, raising his chin and standing up tall, taller than he was used to, Peter ignored the butterflies partying in his gut and took the fall for them both by dropping one heavy boot onto the concrete.

The step echoed against the void. Then nothing happened. No ghosts appeared out of thin air, no faces pressed up against the tinted windows, snarling or staring or screaming for help... it was just an empty corridor. As silent as the grave.

Until a deep clunk of a door opening up ahead vibrated through the very ground.

...That was it. The cut off point of Micah's all-seeing eyes. Through that door they would be locked inside Level 6 with the cell block and ancient history and whatever information they found. Through that door they were on their own.

Peter couldn't be sure of what exactly lay ahead. But one thing he was certain of was how grateful he was for the kid sitting alone with his laptop back in Isaac's empty loft, sneaking them through the cracks in the impossible design with such ease. It was the simplest kind of encouragement just to have someone else on the team.

Losing feeling in his legs, Peter took a second to meet eyes with Sylar-Harris once again. It was creepier in the dark. Harder to distinguish his friend underneath the disguise.

"C'mon." He murmured. Lightly pulling on the other man's forearm, he guided him into the awaiting darkness while trying to recover his determination from before. It wasn't quite as easy the second time.

( )( )( )

"I thought I told you never to call me again."

Noah had barely made himself comfortable at the window of the conference room before the door opened and closed behind him. He took his time turning around, for once allowing a true smile to filter onto his face at such a... friendly reunion.

"You'd better have a good reason for dragging me out here, Noah."

His guest's voice was sharp but disguised under layers of pretence and swagger, much like the woman herself: a vision in bold sapphire, she held herself tall and proud despite being disgruntled at the summoning.

"I just realised I never thanked you for... saving my life back at the carnival." Noah's smile deepened. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you, Ms Strauss."

Tracy impatiently flipped her hair over her shoulder. "A gift basket would've sufficed." She swished her hips as she clip-clopped across the conference room – much to the delight of Agent Stevens' prying eyes on the other side of the glass wall (yet another disadvantage to modern décor, Noah noted).

"You've been hard to reach. I wouldn't know where to send it." He tapped a control panel on his side of the room, causing the sheer partition to fog up and provide some privacy. Then he met Tracy at the large table in the middle of the floor, choosing to perch upon the edge of it while she hovered just outside the reach of a handshake. Despite himself, the middle-aged man was surprised by how nice it was to see her again. "How about a job instead?"

Tracy's eyes widened microscopically, but not as much as they would have had she not anticipated this move. It was only a fleeting moment, then she chuckled, taking off again and sashaying her way around the room. She appeared to think over the generous offer, trailing a hand over the backs of the empty chairs encircling the table. Noah didn't flinch. He knew he'd get what he wanted, otherwise she wouldn't have shown up to the meeting. This woman was certainly... strong-willed when she wanted to be. She didn't like not calling the shots around her, which was exactly why Noah knew she was going to accept the job.

The old world, pre-Sullivan Bros. Carnival, was gone, and so were Tracy's days of overpriced martinis with the governor after hours. Noah was aware that almost all corporations were extensively screening their employees for unregistered abilities, and aware that living an... outed life amongst her old colleagues would destroy this woman. He knew she was currently unemployed. He knew she had been since Claire's jump. And Tracy's lifestyle, if anything, could be called far from inexpensive.

"I see you've come up in the world." She sighed. "This is quite an upgrade to your place back in Washington..." Noah tried not to shift on the hard edge of the table. Still, it was more comfortable than the "chairs".

"Can't complain." He smirked. "Pay's good. Coffee's even better." Calling up a document on his obligatory tablet, he slid the thing clear across the glossy table surface.

An uncharacteristically unmanicured hand caught the device. As Noah waited patiently for Tracy to process the magnitude of her starting salary, the building sang and chattered around them, sounds he knew all too well interlaced with technobabble. After only a few seconds the woman straightened up and flicked her hair again. She surveyed Noah with a pout and intelligent eyes, lips parted in a wary, questioning laugh that was short lived.

"What is this? That kinda money...? You must want me for more than my charm and way with investors."

Raising his eyebrows, Noah spoke before she could voice the protest he could see coming. "I need you on my team, Tracy. I can count on you to get the job done more than the recruits Erica Kravid is having trained. Your skills are invaluable, not to mention I know how you work. We make quite a team, you and I, don't we?"

The woman's pretty face dropped most pretence of calm. For the first time today, she looked like the tormented soul she'd been once before, the one who'd decided to spare Noah's life rather than end it. She glanced around furtively, as if to make sure the clouded glass walls were doing their job. "I'm not an idiot, Noah. I know that behind a multi-million dollar renovation and a killer PR team, this is just Primatech and Pinehearst all over again. I know what you want but I... I don't do that anymore." She stated, voice low and deep with resolve. "Not since that night."

"So you found a way to control it? I'm impressed."

Tracy fidgeted with the edge of the table and drew in a breath, changing direction. Her eyes were piercing when they returned to Noah's, interlaced with promise. "Listen: I won't hurt anyone again."

Fortunately Noah had been anticipating this. It was hardly his first time around the block. "I understand that, Tracy, but we're trying to do the right thing here. We're trying to create the best future possible for everyone, between... people like me and people like you."

"You think I haven't heard that spiel before? Then some madman's idea of a "better future" is trying to bury thousands of people beneath Central Park?"

Noah sighed. "Samuel Sullivan is a disturbed individual, that's why he'll be staring at padded walls for a long time. Renautas is different. And working here, you'd be in the best place possible for you to manage your ability between jobs." He spoke kindly, employing the understanding touch to his features reserved only for persuasion. "...Nobody else has to get hurt, but they will unless we stop the bad guys. I'd really appreciate your help on this one. Then... after, you can transfer to a department you'll be more comfortable in. Big office, great view, healthy Christmas bonus... what d'you say?"

Tracy tore her attention from Noah, casting it around the conference room and wall-sized window as if looking for a way out. But she was turning. She was creeping over to his side, he could tell.

Finally she sighed, stabbing Noah with a wary gaze. "Why are you doing this? After the things I've done? I don't deserve it."

It was touching that the remorse was still bothering her. Noah didn't spend enough time with good people nowadays for that not to be a luxury. It would definitely be worthwhile to have Tracy around more often.

He smiled, the most genuine motion all day. "Because in a world like this one, it pays to look out for your friends."

It was a visual transformation when she came to her decision, a sight to behold, one Agent Stevens probably wouldn't be able to handle. Within a matter of seconds, Miss Strauss evolved from a haunted evo with a stained past into a beautiful woman who was a force to be reckoned with. Her sapphire blue dress seemed to become more vibrant and her hair more golden as those lips once again formed into an upturned pout that refused to spill its secrets.

"Tell me more."

( )( )( )

How many times had he died in here? Sylar couldn't even be sure.

At the very least, he'd been stabbed in the head, shot in the chest, had his neck snapped and been tortured to the brink of death repeatedly. He still didn't know exactly how many times they'd revived him during his first... stay. Within these walls he'd never been anything but a prisoner. A test subject. A fool.

He tried not to allow the past to consume him as he pressed down Level 6 in step with Peter, but the vacant corridor teased him and the cells haunted him like an endless row of gaping rib cages. The windows all looked into identical, empty rooms – eerily so. Was this a good or a bad thing, considering Renautas were definitely kidnapping people?

The pair crept silently along the row of cells, side by side. There had been a time when Sylar had sealed himself in one of them willingly. For his "family". Because it would make his "parents" happy and proud of him if he showed them he could do as he was told... Even his last recollection of this place (before burning inside the building of course) was being responsible for blazing it to the ground.

There were no good memories in here. None.

Things were just the same one floor down as they had been on Level 5, including the echoing thuds of shoes on cement, the design and layout of the cells, and even the biggest, sturdiest one at the end of the row, the one that had no observation window... and just happened to be Peter and Sylar's destination, of course.

The recovering killer shivered in Harris' skin as he and Peter stopped before the cell Micah had highlighted for them on the blueprint. It looked ominous even though there was nothing but a door and an old keypad. That was it? No precautions? No tests? No insurance policy? Just an electronic lock on the door like back in the good ol' days. It was obscenely easy. So much that Sylar felt even more unsettled than he would had they come across a trap that would finish them.

So they'd made it? Just like that? This was supposed to be their most dangerous mission yet! He couldn't find the faith to relax or get cocky at reaching the crest of their journey, not when the impending fall was looming ever closer. The lock on the door was open: one last gift from a technopathic guardian angel. And that, if nothing else, Sylar could trust.

( )

"You doing okay?" Peter spoke in hushed tones to compliment the silence, but the other man startled as if someone had screamed in his ear. Peter instantly regretted asking. It wasn't like he even needed the answer to know the reply.

"Let's just do this so we can get out."

The friends looked at each other for a long, stolen second, hoisting the other up for duty. Peter drank in the darkness of Harris' eyes opposite him, the irises almost the same shade as the watchmaker's own but lacking the tiny flecks of amber and green. He wasn't sure he could do this without Sylar's courage.

They were both hesitating. Peter felt words tiptoeing along the tip of his tongue even though he didn't even know what he was going to say. But before he could try, the other deep, soft-spoken voice whispered along the depths of the corridor.

( )

"I'm glad you're with me."

It didn't matter if it sounded sappy. Sylar didn't care. He just felt stronger in this company and he wanted Peter to know it. Nobody else would hear. Nobody else would care, anyway. It was just the two of them hidden in the dark and cold, and somehow the watchmaker didn't feel the usual need to hide his affection behind sarcasm and a smirk.

They were two very different things indeed: to plot the breaking and entering of the facility because it was the next logical course of action; and then to actually stand here in the flesh, breathing in the dusty smell of cement and regret. It could so easily be impossible to physically put himself into one of those cells again, after everything he'd both encountered and done in there. And he knew it would have been if he didn't have Peter beside him.

"'Course." Harris' face warmed around the edges, and his mouth curved up into a small, grateful smile that was trying not to be nervous and was, for once, symmetrical. Sylar didn't see it though, because all he could see was that expression the way it really would be on the empath's own face. It made him feel braver to be looked at that way.

Okay, now that was too sappy. Kicking himself back into business-mode and determined to get this over with as soon as possible, Sylar nodded at where Peter's hand lay on the door handle. So the other guy steeled himself, then clunked and clinked it open. Together they melted into the darkness within the cavern, the door sealing shut behind them.

( )

Overhead lights flickered to life, prolonging the state of the unknown. Blinking in the brightness, Peter didn't know what to expect to find: screens with stolen footage upon them; fancy tech weapons of Renautas' own design; hopefully not a human weapon the likes of some poor evo being trapped in here for months...? But no. When his vision adjusted he doubted himself. Because if he was seeing this correctly – then Noah's big, bad, benevolent weapon against them was... paper.

Oh. Just paper cluttering an empty cell. Stacks and stacks of the stuff compiling an entire operation: it was slathered over the walls, piled on surfaces or just left lying around the place in total disregard. Hand-written notes, printed pages and photographs were mixed together, seemingly with no reason or design beyond their shared subjects.

The room stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the rest of Renautas' aesthetic – in here there was such a thing as "mess", as mistakes and do-overs and failures that hadn't been quickly swept under the rug. Peter couldn't even see one piece of tech amongst the case files, which at the very least explained why Micah couldn't get in. It was... not what he had been imagining, in any case. It wasn't what could be described as organized. No, it was a work in progress. A look into the mind of an obsessed hunter.

The anticipation of a fight faded quickly, and instead Peter felt almost muted as his eyes struggled to process everything at once. He was grotesquely out of place in here, like a spaceman amongst dinosaurs intruding upon a land he was never supposed to witness. It was months of dedicated work. Noah had really gone to all this effort to take them down...? How could he even begin to process that?

"Peter..."

The empath glanced over at his companion, both of them shimmering back into their own appearances now that they were out of sight of any cameras. Sylar's face was a welcome sight, familiar and so much easier to read when not smothered under a disguise. The only problem was that Peter could read it too well.

He felt his stomach plummet further even before following the watchmaker's line of sight, clocking the far wall of the cell with a lump in his throat: for pasted over almost the entirety of it were no less than every one of the prophetic drawings he and Sylar had created the night after the carnival.

So Noah had found the pages after the oil rig? It wasn't that much of a shock, but the confirmation still packed a punch all the same. The duo waded through the room towards the display, expressions hardening as they drew near. The drawings looked much more impressive presented like this than they had cluttered over Sylar's carpet or under Peter's mattress those months ago... but they were definitely the same.

Peter gazed, transfixed by the wallpaper of his own artwork. He could remember making them so vividly, back when none had made any sense and the images had just been vague predictions of a time still to come. Now, he recognised not just the drawings themselves, but the events they depicted – the real, live moments that he had lived through since: the rig, the casino, even the rooftop that same night... There were some, of course, that were less familiar. There was even a handful that he didn't remember making at all...

And now Noah had them. Every last one. The whole thing formed an uncomfortable knot in the pit of his stomach.

( )

So this was how Renautas had kept showing up these past few months? How Noah always knew where they were going to be? He was playing them at their own game and using the future to catch them?! Sylar had to admit (as much as he hated it), it was a pretty good move.

It was also repulsive. But not as repulsive as the rest of the collection filling the room. He turned his back on the drawings to instead absorb the rest of the place: a shrine, Sylar noticed, to almost every single deed he and Peter had committed since saving the Sullivan Bros. Carnival together. What the hell had the guy been doing with his life to have generated all this?! Most of the paper was compiled of past mission documents, torn or crossed out after they'd proved inadequate, the odd few creased as if they'd been crumpled and later salvaged. But it was a particular assortment of folders that caught Sylar's focus. One that made his blood chill.

He moved slowly, staring with eyes jaded by a thousand past horrors. Sylar approached the documents piled upon a solitary desk, hands moving softly over the surface... his fingers trailed across dog-eared pages, stroked the raised words on others and automatically healed from more than one paper cut before they could even start stinging.

Ink stood out livid from the pages in the brightly lit cell, random thoughts and ideas captured in the heat of the moment then further developed into fully-fledged schemes. There were drawings as well, terrible ones to be polite, but the quality of penmanship didn't diminish the meaning behind them. Unfortunately.

( )

Fidgeting in agitation, Peter rubbed at his chin, then his forehead, then his hair, trying to absorb the full scale of their findings. It felt like it was going to be revealed as a joke any second, that the cardboard walls would drop and they'd find themselves in Noah's real working space. But it didn't happen.

They'd come all the way and surpassed the best security system in the world just for this? What could they hope to gain from it? They couldn't carry all these files away. They couldn't find anything, even, that Micah could use to protect his other charges. There was nothing worthwhile they could do other than render the room to ashes to stop Noah's progress, but even that meant losing any potential object of value. And those other drawings – the new ones, the odd ones out that he didn't remember – they still didn't sit right with Peter. He couldn't put his finger on the source of such unease, but it was there all the same. They were jarring compared to the others, imposters, like a predator laying in disguise amongst the prey just before the kill...

A stuttered release of breath at his back rescued Peter from his tumbling thoughts. Grateful for the distraction, he crossed to Sylar with a frown heavy on his brow and peeked around the other man's shoulder at the document in his hands.

Then he made the exact same sound that Sylar had five seconds ago. Even if the annotations hadn't been nearly illegible, he would still be able to recognise the plotting of his own demise.

It was... plans. Designs. The formula for an upcoming contraption – a harness of sorts, a cage that could contain powerful evos despite their abilities, long enough for Renautas to work out how to kill them for good. Accompanied by detailed descriptions of all the gruesome ways they could attempt it. There was no mention of specific targets in mind, but it didn't take a genius and his empathetic companion long to fill in the blanks for themselves.

Feeling sick, Peter tugged the pages out of Sylar's hand and dropped them out of sight on the desk. The taller man swayed slightly with the motion, otherwise he didn't respond further than his shoulders rising to his ears.

Peter sucked in a deep breath, grinding his teeth. There were no comforting words to make it okay or to pretend they'd never seen such a forecast. It could barely even process, the fact of the matter, the connotations of it, the loose ends that didn't fit the structure at all... Of all things, Peter thought of Lucia. That kind woman from the casino. He remembered what he'd told her of his friends and family, how freshly the reminder of their total disinheritance had hurt all over again because he'd given it a voice for the first time in weeks... He'd thought the pain was bad then? Yeah, that was nothing compared to this.

( )

Peter croaked, as if to speak, but nothing slipped out of his once again asymmetrical lips. The lack of words ricochetted through to Sylar's core. He felt exactly the same.

Looking down into his companion's wounded eyes, the guy's creased forehead and pouted lower lip that betrayed the set to his jaw, Sylar wished that he, himself, didn't look as dejected in return. He wished he could honestly tell Peter that his family probably didn't have a hand in it, or that his friends were just following orders from above, that it wasn't personal. But he couldn't contain the look on his face. Just like he couldn't contain the unfortunate truth that spilled from his lips.

"It's because they're afraid of us, Peter."

The empath frowned only deeper, a dark lock of hair falling across his welling eyes and making him look even more lost than usual. Really, Sylar couldn't blame him. The new contraption wasn't much of a surprise for the ex-villain, it followed the rest of the Company's plans for him very nicely. Peter, meanwhile, had never been outside the safety circle of Primatech's resolve. He didn't know the extent of what they were capable of first hand. But now that his alliance had switched, it seemed his standing within the ranks had too. Sylar only wished that he didn't have to be responsible for dragging the guy down to his level.

He rolled his shoulders and stood up tall in defiance of this room and everything it represented. It was the best he could do to protect himself from the sickly ideas snaking around his joints like chains. For his friend, meanwhile, Sylar gently touched just his fingertips to Peter's upper arm.

"You, me, together? They're intimidated by that." He continued, voice bitter but soft. Then a misplaced glint of pride overflowed from inside and onto his features, meant for Peter. Meant for them. "Renautas want to destroy anything they can't control... and they can't control us."

In spite of everything, or perhaps to spite it, Sylar let his lips take on a slight upward curve. It looked like Peter's tried to copy, but the guy couldn't stop trying to contain his hurt long enough to finish the motion. His mouth formed a single syllable that his voice apparently refused to follow through. "...Yeah."

It was a lifeline in the middle of a storm. Something flimsy to cling to and hope for the best. Fuck Noah. Fuck Renautas. Fuck this whole room. It didn't have to change anything between Peter and Sylar. The truth of their rebellion was the only thing that made the rest of this bullshit okay, because Sylar knew they wouldn't give in, they wouldn't conform no matter how loudly Renautas howled. It wasn't pretty to stand alone on the opposing team, but that didn't mean they weren't familiar with it. It didn't mean they couldn't do it. At least they still had that to hold onto.

"Yeah, I wouldn't be so sure about that."

A third voice sliced through the cell: an intruder, unseen, unheard by the two wanted fugitives until it was to late. The door loudly sealed shut again, and instantly Sylar summoned sparks to his palms, ready to fight and ready to panic at being caught-!

Then that desire was quickly plucked from his mind as if by deft fingers. Electricity flickered, forgotten in his hand, and he stared, that newfound confidence retreating back the way it had come when confronted by one of the last people Sylar would hope to encounter ever again.

The figure blocking the only exit looked the same as last time Sylar had seen him, right down to the malicious spark in his eye. But there was definitely something different about the man, something nasty. Like a large shadow overhead or hideous wings that could be felt but not seen. And suddenly Sylar remembered how much he disliked this person and how much he was disliked in return. Oh fuck.

Beside him, Peter gasped. "Matt...?"

A/N: Thanks for reading guys! This is part one of two for today, I didn't even realise until I went to post the new chapter that it's 29 pages! Yikes! So I thought it was probably best to split it here X) Please let me know what you think, and keep reading for the rest of the update ^.^