The Calm Before the Storm

The place hadn't changed at all. The same checkered flooring. The same smell of strong coffee and pancakes. They were even serving the same weekly specials that had been on rotation for as long as Noah could remember. The world had turned upside down since he'd last been here, but inside the Burnt Toast Diner, today could easily have been the same morning of a particularly fateful homecoming game before everything in his life had started to spiral out of control.

Noah sipped his coffee while watching a car pull up outside. He waited calmly while the door opened and she noticed him, then as Angela Petrelli glided over to his table without sparing a glance at her surroundings. She looked painfully out of place in here; like a vintage china doll thrown in among Lego blocks, but it didn't seem to phase her. Noah wasn't surprised. Not when there were far more pressing matters to concern them both today.

The glamorous woman perched on the seat opposite Noah's, her lips pursed and her eyes ringed by dark circles that even layers of make-up couldn't conceal. That sight in itself would have disconcerted Noah enough, even if she hadn't already demanded to speak to him in person rather than over the phone.

Angela barely met his eyes. "We'd better make this quick, Noah. I'm on my way to the airport, I've to be in Colorado by midday." She didn't elaborate, but Noah didn't need to hear more to know she had been summoned by the boss to Renautas' main headquarters. He didn't need to guess as to why.

"You can tell Erica that almost everything's in place." He assured her, only feigning slightly more confidence than he felt. It was a refreshing change of pace, lately. He waited until the kindly waitress, Lynette, had been shooed off by a withering stare from Angela at the mere suggestion of a cup of coffee, before pressing on. "The next stage is finding a way to contact your son." He didn't mention the part where he still couldn't get in touch with his own daughter either, an equally prominent figure in Parkman's many paintings of the plan. "Then we'll be ready to proceed." He said gently. "And it'll all be over."

( )

Angela barely twitched at the mention of Peter. She was familiar with the pain by now, although she never got used to it.

She was also far too tired to pick Noah's plan apart for the dozenth time. Haunted by dreams of the future to come, she hadn't had a proper night's sleep in weeks. Night after night she witnessed her youngest son responsible for the death of so many, left ruined and wasting away in a desolate world with scars on his face and a hole where his heart used to be. Even now, after all these months of enduring the same visions over and over again, she found it difficult to believe the beautiful young man she had raised could ever devolve in such a way.

But she had seen it. Too many times. And she was running out of time to save him from his fate, no matter the cost.

"And when it's over..." Sitting straight-backed in her chair, Angela linked her fingers in her lap rather than touch the scuffed tabletop that probably hadn't been sterilized in years. "...you remember our deal?" She prompted stiffly, scanning Noah's face for even the slightest hint of doubt residing there.

Angela almost dared him to double cross her. She hadn't masterminded his entire operation, turned her own child into an outlaw and vowed to break him if she had to, all for Noah to change his mind and allegiance at the last minute.

She needed to know that she could count on him. Hollow words over the phone weren't enough. Angela needed to look into his eyes, right here, right now, and know for sure that her trust was in the right place.

Very deliberately, the company man nodded. "I do." He promised.

And while Angela still couldn't exactly relax moving forward while knowing what had to be done; at the very least, she believed him.

( )

The diner bustled around the old friends while they sat there in matching, quiet despondence. Noah knew he should have been cheering and toasting with an obscenely expensive bottle of champagne; but now that he knewhis plan was going to work, and that he would finally get his hands on the targets he had been chasing all this time – for some reason it was difficult to feel happy about it. It didn't feel so much a triumph as more a necessary action to preserve life on Earth as everyone knew it.

And one look at his visitor's lined, weary face told Noah she was having trouble convincing herself of the very same thing.

With a kindly smile, he reached out across the table to touch a hand to her shoulder. Her coat was heavy and luxurious but the person beneath was thin underhand, more frail than he had been expecting. Despite everything, Noah was overcome with genuine sympathy for his ally. "It will work, Angela." Of course, Mrs Petrelli held herself so proudly that it was almost impossible to tell how terrified she was from the outside. But she was a parent, forced to endure one of the worst pains imaginable. Noah had to admire her. He knew that he, himself, wouldn't have been able to be as strong if all this was happening to his child.

Mrs Petrelli nodded as he spoke, but aside from that it would be difficult to tell if she was even listening. Jeez. She really did look exhausted. Noah couldn't say he blamed her. "I know." She concurred, and Noah knew the precognitive dreamer was going on more than blind faith, here.

Because this time it was foretold: Peter and Sylar would be caught. No last minute miracles were going to get them out of this one. It was all planned, it was already promised in oils and canvas, in dreams of the woman who knew the future, and even without any of that Noah knew the feeling in his gut well enough after a lifetime on the job. The hunt was finally about to come to an end.

Even if he still wasn't sure how to actually reach out to his targets and put the plan into motion.

A chiming sound in his pocket drew Noah from his somber contemplation. Grudgingly, he recovered his cell phone (he was sure he'd told Taylor to hold all his calls), only to blink, startled, at the caller ID flashing on the screen. And after a leap of his heart, and a heavy moment of disbelief, Noah fumbled to answer the call he'd thought he might never receive.

"Claire?!" He gasped, months of endless scheming slipping from his mind as his pulse hammered in his ears. But when the person on the other end of the line spoke, Noah's heart seemed to stop mid-beat.

"Not exactly."

Within one simple second, reality came crashing back in to extinguish the hope that had just flared so blindingly to life. A million questions buzzed around his mind (why did he have access to Claire's phone? What had he done to her? Why was she anywhere near him? Was she okay? Had he gotten to her?!) but Mr Bennet did nothing more than kick himself for not anticipating this in the slightest. As he spoke, he locked eyes with the woman sitting across from him, who stared back so intently that there was no way she hadn't recognised the quiet voice on the other end of the line.

"Peter. Well this is a surprise."

"Is it?"

Something about the way the young man said those words coiled unease only tighter within Noah's chest. It took a second to recover his voice.

"Where's Claire?" He managed, a seemingly monotonous drawl.

"She's fine. She's right here with me."

...And then it all made sense. Son of a bitch.

Suddenly it was so obvious. But surely not? It was too easy! So after all his pouring over Parkman's paintings, all his organization to bring every last brush stroke to life: the final piece of the puzzle had just fallen perfectly into Noah's grasp, and he hadn't had to do a damn thing to get it...? It was too good to be true! But, then, why did it hurt like it did?

At least he'd been right all along about Claire. He would see her again. She would be there to help the plan unfold as it must. Noah just hadn't once considered that she might not be there to help him.

After a long, tense silence, Peter Petrelli sighed. "Can we talk, Noah?"

( )( )( )

It all looked so surreal from up here. Peaceful. Perfect.

Thick clouds marred a dusty sky of yellow and orange, stained like old paper that tapered off into charcoal streaks along the horizon. Distance provided a veil of tranquility for the two silhouettes sitting silently high above ground. When the world was so far away like this, it was easy to imagine they could avoid it forever.

Sylar wanted to test that theory. More than he'd care to admit. Instead, he just tipped his face into the dying rays of the sun, enjoying the wind toying with his hair and the underbellies of clouds brushing past his cheeks.

He hadn't done this in far too long. Actually, he'd never sat on a blimp before now. But back in the confines of Parkman's nightmare, staying up to watch the sun rise and set had been a regular occurrence, just another marker of the endless days the two prisoners had spent locked away together. Sylar was sure he hadn't done this enough since breaking down that wall. It was a shame, he realised too late. It shouldn't have had to come down to this to make time for another sunset: the last one he might ever see as a free man, should tonight's plan go wrong.

Somehow this disconcerting thought was met only with the slow, steady beat of his heart. Sylar sighed. Funny. Maybe he was finally beginning to appreciate Peter's infatuation with heights.

The man in question sat quietly at his side, a comfortable presence accompanied by the occasional crackle of electricity or pyrokinetic flare. Sylar wasn't sure how long they'd been sitting here together, waiting for the countdown to close in upon them. He could barely even remember where the day had gone after Claire had agreed to join their cause back in New York. There had been a lot of flying across the country, a few cryptic phone calls and a hefty dose of negotiations, but everything was a blur after Claire had insisted to Peter she had her own ride and would meet them after dark. Sylar recalled not arguing with that part.

Still, today hadn't exactly unravelled the way he'd have chosen for his potential last hours of freedom. But now, sitting comfortably atop the surface of a blimp that had conveniently fallen across his flight path, Sylar didn't care about everything that had transpired before now.

This – just this – was enough.

( )

Peter was focused intently on his lofted hands. It didn't take too much effort to summon flickering veins of electric light to creep over his skin, winding around his fingers as if alive before fading. It was only marginally more difficult to form a glove of white blue flames that encased his other hand entirely. It still wasn't perfect, but at least he felt in better control of his abilities than he had over the past week of accidents and unpredictability. He extinguished the power with a short exhale.

What he was doing couldn't even be called warming up anymore. This display of restlessness was no more beneficial than tapping his fingers against his knees. The empath let his hands fall to look unseeingly upon the horizon of Odessa, Texas sprawled out before him. Because of course tonight's meeting would take place here. It was the result of a negotiated ceasefire between teams – close enough to the remodelled Primatech building where Noah wanted to be; while also far enough away from it like Peter had insisted.

Sylar had called it "ironically fitting". But to Peter, it felt much more like fate to end up back in the place where it had all began.

He still didn't have enough confidence in his newly restored abilities (or in himself to wield them properly) to feel comfortable meeting Noah in person. But the company man had refused to so much as hear him out unless it was face-to-face, to no one's surprise. And if Noah really did listen to his story tonight, then Peter wouldn't need to use a single power anyway. Probably. Hopefully.

Because he didn't want to fight. He didn't want to hurt anyone. Even the horn-rimmed bastard who had put him through hell over the past few months, because now he knew what he hadn't before: that all the time Noah had been chasing them, he had been trying to prevent the very same future Peter was now prepared to turn himself in for. Noah had thought he was doing the right thing in getting the perpetrators locked away, even if that had come at the price of leaving fear and torment and disaster in his wake (in true Noah Bennet fashion, Peter thought bitterly). In a warped way... it was difficult not to feel almost sorry for him having suffered with knowledge of this particular future for months, and difficult not to let some harboured dislike slowly melt away. Because even after everything Noah had done – even after all the hurt and pain he'd inflicted upon others as well as on both Peter and Sylar – Peter couldn't blame him for trying to save the world. Even if he hated the way the guy had gone about doing it.

But that didn't mean he was looking forward to confronting Mr Bennet in just under half an hour. For even if he could sympathise with the agent more than he had the night before, that still didn't mean Peter trusted him the way he used to, once.

"It's not gonna be pretty."

Sylar's voice shook the empath out of his thoughts. He might have laughed at the other guy voicing the exact same sentence that had been swirling through his mind, had the words themselves not been so foreboding.

( )

The murmur at Sylar's side was so quiet he almost missed it at first. "Y'know you don't have to come with me, right?" The former killer tore his gaze from the heavens and onto the vision of intense seriousness sitting beside him.

Sylar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't even waste the energy to call his friend out for such an obscene display of nobility. Trust Peter to be so self-sacrificing even when the end of the world was potentially in sight. He welcomed the contrast between the young man sitting beside him now and the scarred figure he might become looming on the outskirts of the future – not that Sylar doubted the distinction anyway. If this recklessly foolish mission alone wasn't enough to inspire confidence in Peter's corrected trajectory, that statement certainly would have done the trick.

"I can't promise it won't go bad. And I won't force you into this. You have a choice, Sylar."

Sylar's lips turned up at the corners. This wasn't what he'd had planned. Never in his life would he have thought he'd stutter so ungracefully to an end like this: willing, without fighting, walking himself to the gallows all for someone else's dumb idea. But now that it was happening he found that he didn't mind as much as he probably should have. Of course he was anticipating trouble tonight (he may have lost the will for violence along the path of redemption, but he hadn't lost his wits, thank you very much), but somehow even the very real possibility of Noah Bennet – doting father, stand-up citizen, beacon-of-truth that he was – violating their temporary truce wasn't enough to scare Sylar away.

It really should have but it didn't. Somehow.

"My choice was made for me, Petrelli, the moment you dived so valiantly into my worst nightmare without a plan, an escape route, or even a single scrap of sanity." He drawled as if it was of no consequence, raising an eyebrow at the little hero, himself. "I never stood a chance."

It was supposed to be affectionate. Instead, Sylar wondered if he'd only thought those words and accidentally said something else aloud. Something awful. Like the sky was on fire, or Matt Parkman was standing behind them in a leopard print catsuit dancing the Macerena. Either was appropriate for the level of alarm colouring Peter's fine features.

Sylar chuckled to himself. You'd think the guy had just realised he'd accidentally been holding a gun to Sylar's temple all these years. He really was ridiculous sometimes. "Relax, Peter." Taking pity on his companion's conscience-stricken expression, Sylar elbowed him lightly in the ribs. "I thought I told you already: I haven't put up with you this long only to back out now."

Peter replied only in the form of a helpless, relieved smile, pushing that glorious hair of his out of his eyes. Sylar could still smell those fragrant strands as if from up close. Still feel the silky texture of them beneath his fingertips, tickling his bare chest, pressing softly to his face... And that was when he realised why there was a lack of apprehension searing through his own bloodstream to rival his ally's. It was Peter's fault. Yes. Sylar blamed him entirely.

Until today, Sylar had forgotten how it felt to be so aware of someone else's body. How it moved. How it looked. How it felt against his own. He was still glowing inside from the intimate hours of that morning: from burning skin beneath his lips, tasting shivers on his tongue, from tangled sheets and heart beats and rapid breaths that the world might actually have heard this time. He was still revelling in feeling so close to someone else. So in sync. And when he was as bonded to another person as this – by a kicker of a secret that nobody else knew but them – there couldn't possibly be enough room for trepidation within him as well.

Sylar didn't mind at all.

Too soon, Peter broke from Sylar's undivided attention, busying himself by drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. The shuffling movement just happened to press him that little bit closer to Sylar. The watchmaker smiled wider although nobody could see him.

( )

Peter let himself rest against the solid weight of his friend, casting his unseeing gaze over the landscape before him now: awash in fading red and amber sunlight. In merely a matter of minutes, all of this would be over. The rest of the future would begin. He wasn't ready, but he knew from experience that the world wasn't going to wait for anyone, let alone some kid from New York City.

Honestly, he didn't know if he'd be strong enough to keep it together if Sylar wasn't here with him. The man's strength and abilities were priceless tools in their arsenal, but it wasn't even that which gave Peter relief. It was simply Sylar's company. Somehow the idea of confronting Noah Bennet and the global organization that had been hunting them for months seemed much more real if Peter had to do it alone.

They didn't have much longer to wait before sundown, to Peter's increased apprehension. He always hated waiting around – jumping right into the action meant there was never time to talk himself out of it. Tonight, on the other hand, couldn't be more different. And with each passing hour since the phone call, the thought of leaving Noah in the lurch to instead make the most of his time before the end of the world seemed less and less horrific. Pretty soon Peter and Sylar would be pushing their luck staying here any later, but neither man made any move to leave. They simply sat together, stubbornly clinging to the calm before the storm as if it didn't have to end so soon.

Peter could feel the man beside him breathing. Deep, calm... relaxing. Strange, how something so small could soothe him more than anything anyone else could have ever said or done.

( )

"Y'know, I don't regret it."

The watchmaker blurted this into the silence. It was so unexpected that it surprised himself nearly as much as his companion. After a moment, that initial reaction settled. A moment, and another close look at the wind-tousled, pink-cheeked, crazy son of a bitch who'd once exploded into his life with that face and those morals and royally screwed him up for good, a few times over.

"Regret what?"

"You and me." Sylar elaborated, the squeeze of his heart embarrassingly audible in his voice.

For a long time Peter just looked at him, eyes wide and lips parted as if he wanted to say something back but didn't know what. Sylar ignored the slight heat rising to his cheeks, hoping it wasn't noticeable. He back-kicked the urge to cringe for being so open and sappy and pathetic out loud – that was Peter's job, and Sylar's was to ridicule him for it. But there was so much else he wanted to say, so much else he wanted to thank his friend for introducing into his life in a blur of colour and sensation that he'd never known was possible until then. Normally, Sylar would have listened to the voice in his mind telling him to quit while he was ahead, before he made an even bigger fool of himself than he already knew he was going to.

But today, for some reason, he just couldn't hear it.

( )

Sylar hesitated before continuing, just long enough to look shyly amused by his own words. "If this doesn't work out, and Noah gets us?" Slowly, the humour fell from his lips. "I just wanted you to know that." His expression was somber but his eyes told a different story, warm and dark behind a free strand of hair that fluttered in the wind.

Stunned, Peter tried and failed to reply. He had no idea what to say. He didn't know how to handle such an unexpected declaration, for one thing. There was far too much history to capture so easily, for another. The "r-word" brought a lot of memories to mind. Actually voicing the sentence 'I don't regret it either' trod far too dangerously along the crevice between his past and present, too near the graveyard in his heart where his lost loved ones lay safe and preserved for all time. Admitting that aloud would be like saying he didn't mind that they were gone. And he did mind. But the thought of ever giving up what he had now...? He minded that too.

Peter wished he could say something truly heartfelt. Or maybe something cool and funny that would relieve the tension and get them both laughing in the face of their nerves. If it was the other way around, Sylar would have cracked a one-liner faster than Peter could blink, but Peter had never been too good with words. So, unable to speak past the rising lump in his throat, he replied instead by simply brushing that strand of hair from Sylar's eyes, letting his knuckles ghost the man's stubbled cheek on the way down. He'd always been better at conveying his feelings through touch, anyway.

Sylar smiled at him. Peter was helpless to return it. Time might have stopped around the pair then, paused temporarily in the whisper of the next second while they just looked at each other, as if the world was empty and time was endless again. Peter let out a long breath that Sylar subconsciously mirrored.

It would be so easy to kiss him again. He yearned to so much it hurt, and he didn't need to read Sylar's mind or soul to know that he wanted it too. Peter missed the touch of those lips soft against his own, the sparks they kindled within him, and he wanted to return the guy's spoken sentiment in a way that words alone couldn't sustain. All it would take was a tilt of his head...

Only, they didn't do stuff like that. There were rules. They never crossed that line outside the respite of occasional physical intimacy... or at least, they hadn't used to. But things had changed. Without having to say it aloud, Peter could feelthat things were different now that the pair had rekindled their "arrangement" out here in the real world. Something unspoken had shifted this time, after being too afraid all the others before. When their physical desires could no longer be blamed on forced proximity and no other options, and when it couldn't all be dismissed as part of a dream, or a coping mechanism until they finally broke free from their mental prison... there were no more excuses to hide behind. The act they'd shared that morning hadn't just been an attempt to make each other feel validated in an otherwise empty dream world. It had been real.

But Peter was still afraid to break the rules – unspoken ones, yes, but there all the same. He knew he could make an exception, and that Sylar wouldn't mind at all. But if they kissed right now, high in the sky while the sun was dying, above the place where their epic adventure might come tumbling down in flames... it felt too much like saying goodbye. Just in case.

Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned in just enough to touch his forehead to his companion's, only yearning for him more when Sylar wordlessly accommodated the gesture. Peter barely resisted the urge to nuzzle the other man's nose with his own. "We should probably get going, right?" He sighed again, despite pulling back with difficulty only to settle back in at Sylar's side.

"Not yet." An arm draped itself lazily around Peter's shoulders, tucking him in close. A hot exhale of breath tickled his hair. "Give it a few more minutes."

The pair didn't speak again as the final seconds of the countdown drew to a close. They only waited, entwined atop the giant shadow of the blimp, uncaring of a bold Renautas "R" emblazoned across the side or the respect it so brazenly demanded of them. They breathed together as the night grew heavier, as darkness doused the town below like ink seeping across paper. And when the last glimmer of the sun disappeared below the horizon, Peter shivered in spite of Sylar's body heat enveloping him like the hug it was pretending not to be.

"Okay. Let's go."

( )( )( )

The car pulled up a generous distance from the building, rolling to a stop under the cover of darkness. It had been a long flight from New York and the drive from the airport had been no better. However, despite finally arriving at their destination, neither passenger made any rush to exit the vehicle. Instead, the teenagers cut the engine and just sat in the dark, unwilling to part ways just yet.

"Thanks for the ride." Claire's words caused Zach to shrug and smile. He'd always been shy when it came to praise.

"No big deal. I enjoyed the company." He said truthfully. Zach never minded crossing the country to visit his parents, but spending the journey catching up on the insane adventures of The Indestructable Girl was far cooler than dreading the inevitable chat with his extended family over what he was really doing with his life and why he was still "single", any day.

His judgmental relatives were never fun, but he supposed it could be worse. They could be lying, murdering superhumans who betrayed each other and routinely covered up family deaths like it was no issue at all. Man, Claire really had been through a lot since they'd last hung out. Her stories sounded totally made up compared to Zach's ordinary life, so crazy that they'd even make for an awesome comic book series or something similar. No wonder she'd isolated herself from it all as soon as she had the excuse of celebrity.

Presently, the girl returned his smile, but it didn't last long. Zach followed her lead when she looked out the car window, gazing out together at the shadow of their old high school. It looked tiny compared to the city skyscrapers he was now used to, even though he hadn't been away that long. The place was deserted at this time of night. It was unsettling to see it so bare without crowds of kids mulling around, like watching an orchestra play without sound.

Zach suspected the sense of displacement must have been even worse for Claire.

"You... gonna be alright?" He asked.

Claire smiled at him again, this time only slightly less pained than the first. "Guess I'll find out soon enough." With just a sigh, she reminded Zach so vividly of the girl she'd used to be before becoming the young woman he'd met last night back in New York. And not just because she looked nothing like the stylish media starlet the world had come to adore. In total contrast to the way she'd been dressed for yesterday's interview: today she simply wore a plain hooded sweatshirt, no make-up and her hair in loose, messy curls. Gone was the designer pantsuit, the thousand dollar heels, the lipgloss that had practically reflected the dressing room lights back at Zach like glass. Instead, Claire Bennet could easily be fifteen years old again, on her way to meet her biological mom for the very first time. She looked like the spirited girl he'd used to know.

Zach hadn't said anything upon first catching her appearance earlier that day, but her expression and the way she'd quickly redirected the topic of conversation told him enough to know his words backstage last night had really had an effect on her. The thought wasn't exactly disheartening.

At the distant sight of movement over Claire's shoulder, Zach's stomach flipped with nerves. He suddenly remembered that whatever the gathering evos had planned for tonight was probably dangerous and real and way, way out of his league. "Is that them?" He nodded in the direction of the school.

Two silhouettes had rounded the corner of the building and were now lurking near the back entrance, difficult to make out properly from here. All Zach could see was that they were huddled together, standing so close that they had to be talking about something very important. Even from this far away, Zach got goosebumps.

One of those guys had murdered Jackie Wilcox at homecoming. The other had saved Claire's life and died right there on that very path for his efforts. And now they were working together. Zach hadn't asked for the full story – Claire said they'd been through some sort of shared trauma that had re-evaluated their relationship or something – but he knew enough to understand why she might feel uncomfortable about meeting them. And that was before including her adopted father who had secretly been a government kidnapping and killing machine on the down low all Claire's life. Yeah, like that wasn't creepy at all.

"So you finally got yourself that eccentric uncle." Zach mused, trying to discern in the dark which figure had risked his life to save a cheerleader he hadn't even known at the time. It was humbling just to be near the superhero who had featured in most of today's re-tellings of Claire's adventures. How could he not be impressed knowing all the amazing things Peter Petrelli had done, while Zach had been living his ordinary life without a clue?

"You have no idea." Claire scoffed. "Remind me again why I ever wanted to find my real family?"

"We had to make sure you weren't an alien dropped from outer space, remember?"

The pair chuckled, cast back to school afternoons spent on the bleachers conspiring about Claire's ability and potential heritage, each theory more outrageous than the last. It felt like forever ago. Quickly, Claire grew distant again, her gaze trailing across the two shadows waiting for her. "Yeah, well... sometimes I wonder if that would've been better." Sadness and apprehension were clear on her face, even in just the outside glare of a streetlight.

Zach didn't believe her. He wouldn't have even if she hadn't talked about Peter Petrelli so much on the journey here. Sure, she might have mixed feelings about his recent, uh, choices – but despite almost as many complaints as she had compliments for him, Zach knew her hero truly meant a lot to her. Enough to evade her security team, bail on her celebrity schedule and flee the state to answer his call for help, at least.

The boy smiled. "You said whatever's going on tonight is important, right? Important enough to put all crazy family dramas on time out?" Not usually one for letting his feelings show, Zach reached for his friend's hand anyway. It was cold and surprisingly small in his own. "Then you're doing the right thing. Being here." He squeezed her fingers gently. There was just no other way for him to express how proud he was of her for finally putting her ability and status to better use than for crappy TV slogans.

Luckily, it seemed Claire got the message without him having to say it all aloud. She returned the squeeze of his hand, that bright smile of hers shining through for the first time all night. She really did look like herself again. For a moment, Zach thought she was going to say something deep, or something funny that would make them both burst into giggles like they had earlier while flying over Kentucky and re-living school memories.

Instead, her expression softened, a farewell if ever Zach had seen one. "Good luck with your family." She said. Zach accepted the unexpected hug that followed, even if rather shyly. It took a second for him to form a reply that felt meaningful enough to sum it all up.

"Ditto."

The old friends held each other tentatively, an unspoken "goodbye", "thank you", and "I'll miss you" all in one. When Claire pulled back, she drew in a deep breath. There was more determination colouring her cheeks than there had been before, and when the car door clunked open and she slipped out into the night, Zach proudly let her go.

"Hey!" He called spontaneously, just in case he never got another chance. He grinned when she stopped in her tracks to glance back. "You look good, Miracle Grow."

Claire looked as if she might stick her tongue out at him. "Back atcha, Mop Top."

She laughed when Zach self-consciously ruffled the artful disarray of his hair. A small smile lingering on his lips, he watched from the outside looking in as his old friend crossed the threshold of an alternate reality that he had no part in.

( )( )( )

"Just don't antagonize her, okay?"

"Oh like it's all on me? You know how she gets, even if you don't want to admit it."

"Look, I'm not kidding around here. There's too much going on already, the last thing we need is you putting her off before we even get inside." Peter arched his eyebrows, a 'don't argue with me' expression that Sylar chose to humour. After a second, anxiousness restored to the smaller man's features. "At least try to behave. Alright? Be nice. ...Or maybe just don't speak unless she –" His voice caught when he caught sight of something behind Sylar, then he jumped apart to put a more reasonable distance between the former enemies.

Already disgruntled, Sylar's displeasure congealed into a cold lump of discomfort without him even having to turn around. It wasn't Peter's fault he felt the need to downplay their... closeness around his family (and really – who could blame him?) yet still Sylar quietly resented it. Along with what the next few seconds promised to bring. He knew what to expect even before setting eyes on a short, identifiable figure marching towards them in the dark; resentment sizzling from her frame, self-righteous halo wielded like a trophy above her head. Wonderful. Just the moment he'd been looking forward to.

Peter hesitated just long enough for it to be noticeable before meeting Claire halfway, greeting her in a rather awkward hug. Slyar chose instead to hover on the outskirts of the family reunion. He held himself tall and tried to look inoffensive while Peter rambled to his niece about how glad he was that she'd come all this way to help out, but the girl never stopped glaring past him at Sylar.

Oh, if looks could kill. This one might even have bypassed his regenerative abilities for a permanent, withering death. Claire had always been good at that. However, maybe it was just because Sylar had taken for granted the pleasure of not seeing her in so long, or maybe it was because the derision on her face didn't match this new, 'innocent-looking' make-under she'd adopted; but he couldn't help but feel her hatred was even thornier than usual, tonight.

After a tense pause (and a pleading look from Peter), Sylar ground out as un-sarcastic a greeting as he could muster. "Claire." He still had a nasty taste in his mouth from the last time he'd interacted with this girl. Not to mention a good few, bullet-shaped twinges in his chest. But still, at least she was helping his cause now. And at least he'd given it his best shot at being civil.

Little Miss Bennet, on the other hand, did not return the favour.

( )

"I'm only here because Peter asked me to be." Claire spat at the murderer, teeth practically bared. It shouldn't have surprised her how strongly her anger had resurfaced merely at the sight of the smug bastard. Really, she shouldn't have expected anything else. "It has nothing to do with you."

Sylar's lips twitched, but it wasn't a smile. "I was under no other impression. Believe it or not, cheerleader, not everyone thinks the world revolves around them–"

"Hey, both of you – cut it out!" Before Claire could get out more than a furious huff, Peter ducked in front of the killer's patronizing expression, blocking the path between rivals. "This isn't the time, alright? We have to co-operate or this is never gonna work." He frowned between both Sylar and Claire, but held only the killer back with a hand to the chest.

It was a pointless gesture that the guy could evade like breaking free from a cobweb if he chose, but he didn't. Choose to. Or try to evade it. Claire couldn't ever remember the fearsome Sylar letting himself be held in place before, and she wasn't too fond of the connotations of this realisation.

Seeing the pair like this was even harder to stomach than she'd thought it would be, even after trying to mentally prepare herself for it all day. She'd been reminding herself of everything Peter had told her that morning in her hotel, the mental torture he and Sylar had endured together for half a decade... It was awful to put on anyone. And after, Claire could hardly blame them for wanting to stick together in this brave new world that didn't fit around them anymore, where everything was unfamiliar and intimidating except each other. It wasn't like she could really expect them to suddenly part ways after depending on each other for five, long years of co-dependency. Rationally, she knew it was true.

Although, now that they were standing right there in front of her; together, so brazenly united like they didn't feel the need to apologize for it at all... it wasn't so easy to sympathise.

Grudgingly, she forced herself not to even look near the man who had attacked her more than once, murdered both her birth parents and, most recently, corrupted her uncle. "Alright." She directed at Peter, keeping her chin up while swallowing the last of her pride. "What's the plan?"

The young man flashed a tiny relieved smile Claire's way, which might just have made her concession worth it. Speaking quickly but quietly as the silence of the night pressed in, Peter glanced around the trio, double-checking that they were, in fact, alone. "We're meeting your father in the gymnasium. We're gonna try and talk to him, tell him everything we know and hope he comes around, then take thingsfrom there. If he doesn't..." He paused to briefly catch Sylar's eye. "...We'll work that out at the time."

Claire let him finish before crossing her arms. "That's it? That's your grand plan to save the world?" She didn't bother hiding the dubiousness in her tone. So: run inside with no idea of what they're up against, make it all up on the spot and fight their way out if they have to? The scheme certainly had "Peter Petrelli" written all over it.

"Hey, it's gonna work." Letting his hand fall from Sylar, the empath instead turned his full attention on his niece, brushing the tips of his fingers to her shoulder. "It will. He has to listen to us, now you're here." He smiled encouragingly, and for all the things he'd done that she hated, and for all his history of jumping into the deep end without ever looking ahead, Claire couldn't help but have faith in the crooked little curve of his lips.

God help her.

( )

Sylar was more than expecting a temper tantrum. He averted his gaze while the other two worked things out, and he kept his expression neutral when accusing, green eyes jabbed his way, telling himself to brush off whatever self-righteous comment the girl flung at him next. Because Peter was right: there wasn't time for petty squabbles – as much as Sylar despised the idea of playing dead in a battle of wits. There would be more than enough time for that when the world was lost and burning and there was nothing else to do but argue...

To his surprise, Claire Bennet only exhaled a huff. "Let's just get this over with, then." She set off towards the door of the building without waiting for them to join her, making sure to push past Sylar harder than was strictly necessary on the way.

He bristled. But the adrenaline thrill of a mission kicking off (and an apologetic pat on the back from Peter) kept the slew of sharp insults from spilling off his tongue.

( )

"C'mon." Peter mumbled, catching his friend's elbow and steering them in Claire's footsteps. He might have held on just a little too tight, and let go just a little too late.

While the teenager was still out of earshot, Sylar ducked down to speak lowly by Peter's ear. "You're still going through with this?"

"Yep."

"Okay. You do realise your plan is stupid, right?"

The empath's insides twisted but he didn't reply. Of course he realised. With every passing second this plan was seeming more and more like a foolish one and the worst idea Peter had ever had. Which was really saying something. But he knew he had to go through with it, one way or another. He'd seen the planet dead already; barren; burning beneath ashes that dusted the surface like snow. And he couldn't let it happen again. Heroes risked their lives for their causes, and if knocking fate off its course wasn't important enough, then Peter couldn't imagine what was. He had to keep trying, keep his head held high and his courage from waning. As much as he wished it were possible, he knew he and Sylar couldn't change this future on their own. And he was just so tired of running away.

"Peter?"

Peter slowed to a stop when Sylar pressed a hand to his chest. With effort, he forced himself to meet the eyes of the man towering over him: strong and reliable as always, sincere, framed from behind by the glow of a streetlight that traced the angles of his features. God, Peter really hoped he wouldn't need to miss him anytime soon.

"Yeah. I know." He exhaled, wishing he had something better to say. "But what other choice do we have?"

No miraculous solution came from the genius before him. Sylar just looked down upon Peter, his palm burning through the empath's coat, just the same as it had felt at the Sullivan Brothers' carnival when there had also been too much to say and not enough time or privacy to do so. The pair stood where their blood had first spilled together upon this very ground, their forms lit by the streetlight and an old clock face hanging above the door, unwilling to leave the exact same spot where their destinies had become intertwined –

"You've gotta be kidding me." A bitter scoff from the door shook both men to their senses. Peter ducked his head while Sylar threw daggers her way. The watchmaker's touch lingered longer than was necessary before finally slipping away.

Peter feigned as much confidence as he could manage while caught in this buzzing state of unease, as if it could hope to remedy his pounding heart and the feeling of light-headedness that consumed him. He led Sylar over to where Claire stood scowling at them both, having forgotten she was watching, and conveniently avoided meeting her eyes as he phased the group into the building.

( )( )( )

The slamming of van doors echoed into the night, shaking Tracy's already taut nerves. It hadn't been a long drive to the school from the old Primatech building, yet it was enough to have sabotaged her resolve like a ball of yarn unspooling over the distance. By now she was near enough numb, unaffected by the chill of the night and just watching the team prepare as if from the other side of a mirror, hiding, unseen, on the other side.

Tracy clumsily climbed out of the Renautas van, beside half a dozen heavy boots that pattered on the asphalt of the parking lot, following the smudge of dark shadows around the corner of Union Wells High School. It was only now that she was physically here to put the plan into action – and not just talking about it from the confines of a million dollar office – that the full might of what was expected of her rang true. And it rang very loudly.

Yes, she hadn't exactly stuck to the rules in the ascent of her career, and she'd been far from a moral angel in her life; she had a knack for identifying the winning side and making herself invaluable to it. But Renautas wasn't just a corrupt government office taking backhanders on the side. They had shady things going on down in the labs, a classified airport hangar that Tracy didn't ever want to see, and she'd witnessed too many people be hauled in bound and drugged against their will to feel justified turning a blind eye any longer.

Despite all this, it was only right here, in this very minute, that she'd never felt more certain that she was working with the bad guys.

Noah Bennet's voice filtered through the other agents from where he stopped at the front entrance of the school. Of course he was all business, unfaltering, unforgiving, as he always was on a job. "Don't get too close. Remember, they'll be expecting a fight. We have a very limited time frame to get this right, if I know Sylar, he won't turn his back on anyone..."

Hovering behind the congregated team, Tracy's feet stopped of their own accord. "...Noah." She croaked. "I can't do this."

It should have been too weak for anyone to hear, yet Noah appeared and obscured her vision so fast she knew he must have been anticipating it. "Yes you can, Tracy." He said smoothly. It was his tried and tested fatherly routine, the one that had dragged her back from the edge more times in this past week than she'd care to admit, only this time badly pinned in place atop anxious exhilaration. "You wanna know why? Because you took this job to be able to help people. And that's what you're doing now." While his declarations of "for the greater good" had been reassuring when time and distance was involved, they bounced off Tracy all but uselessly now. "We're all counting on you – and not just the team, but everyone. I know how you work, Tracy: you're a fighter. Don't give me reason to doubt that."

He spoke with such confidence that Tracy wanted to trust some of it was real, that it wasn't just a tactic to get her to play by his rules until he got what he wanted from her. But she'd worked in business far too long to be fooled. She couldn't trust his faith, or that he had her best interests at heart – not when the mission was as crucial as it was. He needed her. He didn't believe in her. Probably about as much as Tracy didn't believe in herself.

Pursing her lips and crossing her arms, her eyes darted around the lot as if confidence would arrive in the form of a neon sign telling her what she should do and how she should feel, but all that she saw was the Renautas team getting into formation: consisting of a few too many M.F. Harris duplicates for comfort, and as always, the silent, watchful Haitian hovering in the background.

"Tracy?" Noah's voice ran through her like a crack in her icy form. She tried to focus on his face and on keeping it together in front of her boss, but it was almost impossible while flooded with such guilt and regret for what she was supposed to participate in next. "You know we can't afford any weak links tonight. Can I count on you?" He demanded. His expression was crafted to appear understanding but his eyes were harsh behind the shield of his famous horn-rimmed glasses. Tracy wasn't a fool. She could recognise a threat when she heard one.

How could she go through with this when her faith in him and his arguments was so badly shaken? When she was up on the front lines seeing the harsh truths of winning that nobody ever warned you about? However, one thing Noah said had hit home. Tracy had taken this job in the hopes of improving her past and helping people along the way. Of course, at the time she hadn't realised that would entail trying to prevent the end of the world...

But she did want to help. She did want to survive. She knew what future was coming; the collage of prophetic paintings had even invaded her sleeping hours, lately. And, even if she didn't morally feel comfortable about it, she knew she would do anything – and side with anyone – to prevent the events they foretold.

Swallowing harshly, it was all she could do to keep herself standing tall and stare right back at him under the guise that she knew what she was doing. It didn't take long for Noah to accept her answer although she hadn't even spoken. "Don't let me down." He said, with an encouraging nod that only made Tracy more unsure of her decision.

Hugging herself tighter, she followed on auto-pilot as the company man left her side to lead the team through the front doors, expertly resuming his role as a leader who wouldn't even entertain such a thing as second thoughts.

Tracy only wished she could claim the same.

( )( )( )

"It's this way." Claire focused on navigating the familiar hallways of her old school, choosing not to dwell on the footsteps following behind her. She didn't want to be aware of how close the men were walking to each other, or that one took nearly four steps to the other's two just to keep up, or who the longer strides belonged to, prowling unseen at her back.

She didn't want him near her. Especially here, of all places.

The building seemed to be entirely deserted. Watchful. Waiting. Silent corridors stretched on through the building like veins, void of the lifeblood of youth and gossip and competing rivalries borne of too much teenage angst and egos. Claire grit her teeth while passing a wall of display cases, and deliberately didn't look at the old memorial inside dedicated to Jackie Wilcox. The lurch of her insides only increased when she caught sight of an even bigger tribute beside it: this time constructed in honour of The Indestructible Girl.

It was too weird being back here. Way too weird. By the time the unwitting trio finally approached the gymnasium where Noah was waiting, Claire actually found herself grateful for the upcoming confrontation waiting on the other side of those doors. All this emptiness and anticipation was more unbearable than the thought of seeing her father again in person, even after avoiding him for months. Deciding against giving Peter and Sylar another moment to get lost in each other's eyes like they had outside (gross), she didn't even hesitate before reaching for the handle –

"Stop!"

Already on edge, the evos jumped to the defense at the echo of a new voice nearby. The next thing Claire knew, she was being shielded by two armed evos, barely able to peer over their shoulders or through a protective promise of blue electrical sparks and fire.

It took a moment for her to locate the source of the cry, emerging from the bend of the next corridor. And only a moment more to recognize her.

"Tracy?"

( )

Sylar didn't need the vocal announcement to place this woman's identity. He knew who she was. Far too well. As if just to remind him, phantom pains chilled along his back like the memory of razor-sharp icicles pouring from above. Hackles raised, he allowed his pyrokinesis to continue purring along his raised palm. After a quick assessment, he noted that the agent was alone, not carrying a weapon, and not out of breath, as if she'd been waiting here to catch them.

"Tracy, what're you doinghere?" Claire took a step forward only to be held back by Peter, who was scowling about as much as Sylar assumed he was, himself. The girl's naivete might have been endearing to anyone other than this scarred soldier, marked by too many betrayals of the past.

It wasn't a surprise to see Tracy here. She had seemed like Noah's right hand woman the last time Sylar had seen her. The surprise was in her reaching out too soon, meeting them too early, by herself, while attempting to look harmless and contrite. She may as well have been waving a white flag over her head. Sylar's honed senses were chiming warning bells through his system, keeping his awareness heightened and his mouth tightly shut while he observed.

The Renautas agent spared only a guilt-laden glance at the teenager before addressing both Peter and Sylar. "Don't go in there." She spoke quieter this time, her voice taut, expression earnest, her hands held harmlessly out to the sides. Yet, Sylar still wouldn't have lowered his defenses even if he didn't recognise the nasty feeling of what exactly was coming next.

Fuck.

After an expectant silence, Tracy's pained confession rang down the corridor. "It's a trap."

From beside him, Sylar heard a dejected puff of breath from Peter, followed by the sound of his electrokinesis fizzling to a stop. Shifting his weight, Peter shared a wave of uncertainty with Sylar through their matching expressions alone. The watchmaker didn't even need an ability to know exactly what the guy was thinking.

So much for a mutual ceasefire.

( )

"Wait. Back up: you're working for them?" Claire said, her eyes narrowed accusingly.

Tracy didn't bother to deny or justify this claim, refusing to look away from the two men standing before her, the ones responsible for so much panic and problems within Renautas for as long as she'd worked there. Up close, they weren't so fearsome. Really, they were just men, just people like her who had been initially gifted their abilities without their consent. And Noah was hunting them, driving them out of their homes, away from their families, their lives, and Tracy had been part of it...

"So this is where that 'new life' of yours took you?" Claire scorned, shaking her head as if she should have known than to hope for better. "I thought you wanted a world where we can live freely with our powers without being targeted? That you wanted to help people! And now you're working for the enemy?"

Tracy wished the teenager's contempt wasn't so affecting, after all it shouldn't be – they hardly knew each other! But the girl had once looked after her when Tracy hadn't known how to look after herself, and heart-to-hearts with female friends and a hot mug of tea just didn't happen often enough in Tracy's life to go unappreciated. But this, tonight, wasn't about Claire.

"I do want that." Tracy took comfort in the fact that this was true. While her morals were currently shifting uneasily on their axis and her allegiance was shaking at its core, this fact was the one thing she was sure of above all else. It was the force that currently made her choices for her and drove her actions forward, as questionable as they may be at times.

"And your idea of "helping people" means rounding them up, is that it?" Peter Petrelli spoke darkly in her direction, and Tracy was reminded of him the way she'd first met him, the heartbroken young man who had just been defiled and disowned by his own father before being thrown from the top floor of the building. No wonder the poor guy wore that look of contempt so well.

Breathing steadily, she tried to ignore the clammy unease that clung to her skin. "Not anymore."

Yes, they might just be people, yet it was difficult not to feel intimidated in the face of the two powerful fugitives she had been conspiring to capture for so long. Even more difficult to shake the feeling that they knew how many doubts were swirling through her mind just being here doing this. But she had to. It was the right thing to do, no matter who might hate her for it after.

"I know you have no reason to trust me, but we don't have much time." Pulse racing, she inched a step further, narrowing the divide between parties. "Noah has no intention of listening to what you have to say. He's... he's planning to attack you the moment you get in range of the Haitian." There. She'd said it. Even if the words shook a little on the way out.

The effect of them was instantaneous, webs of doubt fracturing the scene like fissures in the earth. Tracy wished she wouldn't feel so guilty when only trying to do the right thing. She watched as Peter Petrelli ran a hand through his hair and over his face, cursing under his breath. Meanwhile Sylar, the one responsible for most of the chills creeping down Tracy's spine, never took his glare off her.

"And we're supposed to just take your word for that?" He tone was dangerous, his eyes shielded by a frown formed more from suspicion than betrayal. Getting desperate, Tracy tried not to panic more, not to worry that she was losing them already and that she'd put everything she had on the line for nothing.

"You will if you want to stop the future you saw."

( )

Peter physically trembled. So Renautas really did know. Of course, they were missing some of the most important details, but the very fact that he wasn't alone in witnessing this prophecy sent shivers spanning across his skin. It felt even more real now than it had until a second ago.

Shaking his head, Peter spoke more to encourage Sylar and Claire – to encourage himself – than to Tracy. "No. Doesn't matter." He stumbled numbly towards the doors to the gymnasium, reaching shaking fingers for the handle. "We came all this way. We need his help. I'm not leaving until I've seen him, until he knows –"

"If you go through those doors, you and your friend are as good as dead!"

At this, Peter froze. His hand clenched around the handle and his heart throbbed and withered within his chest. Locked in place, he stared unseeingly at his shoes while enduring the pain of being torn in half by two competing urges. No. Fuck. No.

After they'd travelled so far to get here, after everything he'd seen in his visions, and even putting recent history aside to believe in Noah to obtain at least a scrap of human decency...? Of course Peter had anticipated that Noah would most likely try to capture them, somehow. And he had been prepared and willing to take that chance, anyway. But... knowingly walking into a lost cause wasn't the same as going in to talk and hoping for the best. Barging in there when he'd received more than a fair warning, and condemning not just himself (because that was his own choice), but his friends as well, to a fate they could have avoided if not for his own stupidity...?

No. Peter had already learned that lesson the hard way, too many times. It didn't matter if the solution to his problem was just on the other side of this door. Because what was the point in trying to outrun a future where he hurt seven billion people if he couldn't even spare the two most important ones in his life?

( )

Sylar stood silently, eyes darting between Tracy's nervous face and Peter's rigid back, a practice that hid the activity writhing below the surface of the watchmaker's skin. Watching, evaluating, he took in the scene like a statue, flames dripping from his hands as he waited for Peter to make the next move.

The moment yawned on the precipice of action, until Sylar was readying to open his mouth and say something – anything – anything other than leave themselves out here like this in the open to be found-! But, finally, the empath's hand slid from the door. A sigh wracked his frame and he turned back to the group, jaw set and that pretty face a symbol of the hope he knew he had just lost.

Tracy seemed to stand taller, her breathing coming quicker now. "I can get you outta here, but we have to move quickly. You know what Noah will do if he finds you here – if he finds me with you." She urged, a vision of desperation at play if ever Sylar had seen one. But it was going to take more than that to fool this practiced wolf of another in disguise.

"And how noble of you, that is. Tell us, what brought on this sudden change of heart?" He spat. The flames licking his palms grew hotter then, just a little. Peter approached Tracy too, only enough to stand equal to Sylar, shoulder to shoulder, while keeping Claire out of the firing line behind him.

( )

"We never asked for your help." Peter tried to deflect the guilt trip that was thrown at him, only marginally succeeding. He balled his hands into fists but no ability followed, delayed by the tiniest hope that this proposition might actually be genuine, stupid though it may seem of him.

Tracy huffed. "From where I'm standing, you boys need all the help you can get."

Peter's internal, grudging agreement to this fact was interrupted by a small hand on his arm, followed by Claire stepping into his line of sight. "I think we should trust her." She stated. "You heard what she said, she's putting herself in danger just to warn us. She didn't have to do that." Claire added, tightening her hold on him encouragingly. It was so sure, so naïve, that Peter longed to feel the same, the way he'd used to when it was easier to trust, before lies and too many betrayals had dirtied the lenses of his rose coloured glasses.

Pulled on each side by warring indecision, he sought after Sylar's opinion that usually worked to comfort him and help elevate the pressure on his shoulders. This time, however, it failed. "Peter: don't." Sylar's voice was low, strong, definitive. And he was usually always right when Peter was wrong, and he had much better experience in knowing when to trust and when to run, and he was offering to take the reigns and become the one to blame if something were to go wrong here. But Peter just couldn't let go of them when so much was on the line.

Frowning deeply, he turned his attention once more upon Tracy Strauss, unable to deny the nervousness and agitation exuding from her frame. He fumbled his first attempt to get his hands on telepathy, then cast the ability that he hated over the company agent, holding it as steady as his fragile control would allow.

Instantly a rush of shame and remorse invaded his senses as if he was breathing in smoke, jarring loudly in his head like static feedback from a badly tuned radio. Peter winced, out of practice in honing this ability since his full repertoire had been restored to him. It was difficult to make out his target's thoughts, fuzzy through a constant cloud of guilt.

...so sorry... want to be better... all those people... the right thing... second chance... please... only want to help... I only want to help...

( )

Claire knew she had won her case even before Peter turned that infectious gaze of his her way. It was clear from the release of tension in his spine, from the softening of his stance, but mostly through a simple, glorious thread of recognition. She was much too familiar with Peter Petrelli running on hope and faith to mistake it now.

He turned to Sylar first, to Claire's dismay. "I think she's telling the truth."

The look on the killer's face was unreadable. Unless that was because Claire was unused to seeing anything much beside smug maliciousness there. And that was certainly not the expression he was wearing now. It looked conflicted, it looked human, genuine, real; and something Claire discovered too late that she had no interest in seeing at all.

Standing excluded, all but forgotten on the sidelines of the pair's silent exchange, she caught Tracy's eye and gave her a nod. That was all, just a nod. A sign of agreement, not of forgiveness or understanding – for that would come later, if at all. Claire had lost a great deal of respect for this woman tonight, in discovering which path she had taken since their last interaction. Zach really had been right, before. Just how much had she missed, exactly, while hiding from this world under the excuse of a celebrity schedule?

It felt like hours later, while really only seconds had passed, when Sylar grudgingly extinguished the flames pouring over his hands and took a step back, presenting the corridor behind him. Claire didn't waste an ounce of emotion on his feelings.

Reading her cue, Tracy took the lead, herding the trio away from the gym doors with hurried steps and hushed voices. "Okay, we've gotta hurry."

( )

Together, they ran. Putting distance between themselves and their hunters, the question and the answers, the best chance they'd had at making some sort of sense of the burning sky that loomed above them all. It was terrifying to come so close to another capture, thrilling, disappointing yet unsurprising. While Sylar sped down the length of the next corridor, and the open sky grew closer and his heart beat faster, he wished that it didn't have to go this way. But that didn't mean he wasn't ready to fight his way out if need be.

He kept his defenses within easy reach, aware of every blind turn and that Bennet would realise any second that his plan had been foiled and chase after them. Or Sylar hoped it had been foiled, anyway. He didn't believe in Bennet to be fooled so easily, and he didn't believe in this Strauss woman to have so quickly turned over a new leaf (as much as he knew how difficult it was to be heard when stressing that particular angle). But he did believe in Peter, for better or worse. And if the foolishly trusting empath was headed this way, then Sylar wouldn't be anywhere other than beside him.

But when the group stopped at the last corner, and Tracy peeked around to examine the final stretch between them and the exit, Peter surprised Sylar by voicing the same uncertainty that he had been chewing over. "Why are you doing this?" Peter directed at the agent, catching his breath.

She visibly struggled. "I've... hurt too many people already. I can't stand by and let Renautas do it again."

"You weren't so fond of us last time we met." The growl that Peter emitted only just came close to the grudge Sylar was harbouring for that particular event. Then again, the guy had barely even been conscious for most of the ordeal. "What changed?"

Tracy led them off marching down the corridor, blonde hair swishing and her face lifted as if in defiance, and Sylar's resentment for her only grew. As if there was anything she could possibly mention that could –

"Your brother."

Oh. Him. Shit.

( )

Peter reeled at the unexpected mention of Nathan, slowing a little, mid-step. The accompanying clench of his chest and leak of his feelings showing through to his face hit him next.

"What's Nathan got to do with any of this?" Claire demanded at Peter's back, the ache in her tone nearly on par with the emotional tide Peter was currently fighting against. Tracy didn't even give them time to adjust, not even so that aching wounds wouldn't be in the direct line of attack.

"He put me through hell and back." She continued, her voice disjointed by the momentum of her marching. It was as if she had no idea the magnitude of the fire she was playing with here. "He used me. Hunted me, locked me up, interrogated me, and let one of his agents try to kill me." It was only habit for Peter to draw up his shields in memory of his lost brother, all stains on his name washed clean in the wake of his death, ready to defend the man he'd loved so dearly in any shape or form!

Then Tracy's tone changed entirely.

"But before all that... Nathan saved my life, once. He reminded me that things can be different, that we have the right to change our fates for the better. And since he's not here anymore for me to return the favour," A nasty acknowledgment rolled through the hurrying evos, most notable in the way Sylar drew ever so slightly apart from the others, averting his eyes. "I figure I owe it to him to help you change your fate, deserve more than what's been planned for you."

Peter felt weak on his feet. Like the only thing keeping him up and moving right now was the palpable presence of his brother filling the space beside him. Chewing his tongue, he fell silent and fought not to let this show before a potential enemy, instead breaking apart on the inside as he re-lived the pain of losing part of his soul for the millionth time. ...Nathan...

Peter wished he could have turned to the man for help tonight. He had no doubt that his brother would've known what to do better in this situation; and his plan wouldn't consist of a failed stand-off near enemy territory, then running away with his tail between his legs rather than be dragged off in chains. Nathan would scold Peter's inability to have seen the simpler route here, squeeze his shoulders, then make a few calls and pull a few strings and the whole thing would be quick and professional and secret official business rather than this clumsy mess that Peter was still just improvising on the spot.

He had no clue what to do now. The shame of yet another failure constricted his throat like mottled hands. So the Noah plan was out, they still had nobody to turn to, nobody who would listen, and only six years to try and stop some apocalyptic disaster from burning the world to cinders...?

Peter's heart ached just thinking about the responsibility he had been left to unwittingly carry. The end of days might not seem so scary if Nathan were here to dismiss it and pretend that everything was alright. But that wasn't what the world needed right now, even if Peter longed for it. What it needed was action, not avoidance. And Peter didn't need a politician's strengths tonight. He needed a warrior's.

Which was exactly why he felt so utterly useless, even with all his abilities restored. And which then, in turn, regurgitated old doubts and ghastly insecurities that Peter had lived a lifetime trying to ignore. What if his abilities had never made a difference? Without any of them, or with as many as he could carry: what if he was just destined to fail anyway...?

At long last, the group broke through an emergency exit door, tumbling into the parking lot. The air was cool and refreshing on Peter's face, helping ease him out of his storm cloud of thoughts and back to the present –

Only for him to then doubt himself. And Sylar's snarl. And Claire's gasp. And the awaiting line of figures standing before two Renautas-emblazoned vans. What-?

The figure in the middle spoke first, moonlight glinting off his horn-rimmed glasses, tracing the ominous form of Rene nearby, along with too many M.F. Harrises flanking each side. Peter's heart skipped a beat as he struggled to process everything at once. "I wish it didn't have to come to this. I really do." Noah Bennet said sorrowfully, almost gently.

Confused, the reality of the situation only hit Peter with the force of a thirty story fall when Sylar leapt in front of him, protecting him. And in the next flash of a second it all made sense: ambush.

Oh god.

No.

Shock, betrayal, regret, fear, panic. Suddenly Peter was struck dumb, Claire was too far away and Sylar was planning to take the brunt of the fight; and both men scrambled to summon any one of their abilities but their powers were no longer there. And then Tracy was behind them, and she took hold of their wrists; and through it all Noah watched them lose at long last with that same, sad look in his eye.

"Don't worry, Peter. We'll take care of you." He promised.

Appalled, Peter turned to Tracy's vice-like grip, too slowly, as if moving underwater. Forced to watch while everything erupted around him, his mess of thoughts were those of terror, of love, loss, of wondering what he'd done wrong.

I'm so sorry. Tracy's voice reverberated along Peter's telepathy. He only had enough time to acknowledge that the guilt he'd read from her before had been real after all, before meeting his own look of horror in Sylar's stricken gaze.

And then all he knew was pain.

( )

"NO!" Claire shouted, breaking through the immobility of shock the moment two screams rent the night.

Bewildered, she couldn't believe what she was seeing, what she'd just walked right into. What she couldn't do anything to undo. "No! STOP! NO!" Her yells echoed uselessly around the parking lot, just as uselessly as her attempts to wrench Tracy free from both Peter and Sylar.

It happened impossibly fast, like dropping a match into gasoline and watching the ground take flame. Only it was beautiful, only it was grotesque, and Claire could only stare, horrified beyond belief, to watch cold creep over skin and hair and clothing until nothing was left but ice. One moment they were there – her uncle and her nemesis, the two strongest people on Earth – and by the next breath they were frozen, captured forever in a shared state of shock, of broken trust, stunning and glittering and helpless in the night.

A dejected sound, somewhere between a sob and a whimper, escaped Claire's lips. Then there were too many hands on her arms, huge and rough and identical, and Claire was wrenched away from her pitiful hold on Tracy.

( )

"No! Dad! Stop this! What're you doing?! You have to listen! DAD?!" Every one of Claire's cries gouged a deeper hole in Noah's heart, cutting him closer to the quick each time. He couldn't ignore them or tune them out, just as he couldn't ignore the fact that she'd come here tonight to oppose him. Another glare of disapproval from her was nothing new, in the long run.

Doing his best to maintain a calm collectedness in front of his team, Noah stopped the Harrises briefly as they dragged his daughter past him, kicking and screaming. "Be gentle with her. She's not to be harmed, you understand me?" He commanded, sending them on their way to the van without so much as glancing at his precious daughter. That act, alone, hurt far more than anything else he'd done here tonight.

As Claire's screeches faded and the scene began to clear, Noah indulged in a moment to catch his bearings, hiding the motion behind cleaning his glasses. So he'd won. Then why didn't it feel vindicating, or satisfying, or any of the usual emotions he'd come to know after so many decades in the job? Sure, this plan had been foretold already, Parkman had painted everything down to a tee: the parking lot, Rene, Claire's inclusion, Tracy, and of course – Renautas' two most wanted fugitives in their current icy state. Noah had already known he was going to win, but that wasn't what removed the thrill of successfully completing a mission. Particularly one as long-winded and troublesome as this one.

Choosing to ignore that particular issue for now, he found himself avoiding the silent, knowing gaze of the Haitian, and dreading the call he now had to make to Angela. At least Erica Kravid could finally take that stick out her ass, at any rate.

Replacing his glasses, Noah strolled to a stop beside the star player of the day. He patted a hand on her shoulder. "You did a good job, Tracy. Because of you, billions of people are now safe." He spoke softly, with more understanding than she would believe, but she pulled out of his touch instantly.

"Don't patronize me, Noah. I did what you hired me for." Tracy crossed her arms painfully tight and pursed her lips, draping a withering glare over him that could nearly rival that of Mrs Petrelli, herself. "You said I could leave when we're done. Well we're done." She turned on her heel with a flick of her hair and stormed across to the vans, swathed in even more doubts and regret than she had been before playing her part to perfection.

Noah watched her leave, if only to prolong the inevitable. He had the oddest feeling he might never see that woman again. It was another leg knocked out from beneath him, another cloud overshadowing the relief and the magnitude of what he had accomplished tonight to preserve the future of life. Because he'd done it. He'd just saved the world.

Pity that fact apparently didn't come with much sense of grand achievement.

Lastly, Noah let his gaze fall upon the two sparkling sculptures presented before him: immortalizing the very second he had finally earned his victory after weeks, months, years in the making. This was it – the moment he'd been waiting for. What he'd been working towards through every maddening all-nighter, every false start and wrong turn and crisis of faith he had endured in order just to make it to this spot.

And now that he was here? He didn't linger.

"Take them." He ordered the spare Harris duplicates, letting them swarm in behind him to prepare the prisoners for transport.

A/N: So I guess there's a LOT to talk about here, right? X) First let me start by saying I'm so sorry for such a delay between updates! I think that might have been the longest wait between chapters over the whole story so far, and it was not my intention and not my choice – irl schedules have been insanely busy the past few weeks/months. But I'm SO glad to have FINALLY finished this big chapter and get to share it with you guys!

Which then brings me onto the latest events in the story. For which, I guess I owe another apology to the boys X( At least they got to share that peaceful moment on the blimp before (which I might have needed more than they did hehe). I hope you're not too mad at me for what happened here, but plot's gotta plot, right? And plot, it will: if this was the calm before the storm, then there's still the actual storm itself to come next – which means more action, more drama, and a lot of angst is on the way...

As always, I appreciate and reply to every comment, so don't be shy to get in touch. I'd love to know what you think of these particular developments – did you see through Tracy's trick like Sylar or did you fall for it like Peter and Claire? Hopefully it won't take as long this time to get the next chapter written and shared, but I'm also hoping to write my usual Christmas oneshot in the next few weeks, so look out for that soon if you're wanting some Christmas Petlary goodness X)