A/N: Just a warning that this chapter involves emotionally distressing non-con elements of harm (non-sexual).

On Borrowed Time

"NO!" Peter cried, tripping back from the Haitian on legs he could no longer feel. Heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through his body, Angela's words reverberated so strongly in his mind that he began to see stars. "No! Ma! Don't! You can't do this!"

"You'll only keep fighting for him, Peter. I can't take that risk. You'll never be safe as long as you're bound to him."

The cavernous office seemed to shrink around Peter with each second that blurred by, each moment that felt increasingly like a nightmare that he didn't wake from. He couldn't make sense of what was happening. He couldn't even fathom such cruelty. Angela seriously planned to erase part of who he was? Every thought, every feeling, every interaction he'd experienced since the day of the Sullivan Brothers' Carnival?! Months of his life – no, years of his life! – gone, deleted, as if it had never been anything more than a dream?! She would steal his only ally from him, Peter's only friend, worse than in an act of murder because without even memories to cherish who could prove they'd had anything at all?

Finding no solace in his mother's eyes, instead Peter turned to the imposing form of Rene, the very same man who had once stolen his memories and left him alone in the world with nothing and no one, not even a name.

"Rene, listen to me," Peter pleaded. "You don't have to do this! Why are you listening to her? You know this is wrong!"

Rene's face remained uncompromising, sombre as ever, the weight to his words only contradicted by each step that followed Peter's every attempt to escape. "I'm sorry, Peter. It is not my decision."

Aghast, Peter's breath was knocked out of him when his back hit a bookcase lining the wall. Left with no other option, he scrabbled for abilities that he could no longer reach, the most power he had ever possessed that didn't belong to him anymore. The abilities weren't where they should be but he could still feel them stirring somewhere out of sight: powerful, writhing, tugging against their restraints yet unable to rise to his aid... He fought to overthrow his opponent's ability through willpower alone. And when Rene let slip a grunt of effort Peter dared to cling to a faint glimmer of hope. But in his heart he knew the few seconds he had left were never going to be enough to spare him.

"Please!" He tried again. "Stop this! I don't wanna hurt you!"

The Haitian answered only by the downward turn of his lips, the same motion Peter had known in the past when he'd disagreed with orders previously. But Rene didn't cease in his approach, and Peter had nowhere left to run, and when the taller man raised a palm to Peter's forehead, instinct took over like that of a cornered animal.

All Peter knew was a blinding burst of defiance that flared in his chest; then his hand closed around something solid and heavy on the shelf behind him; there was a crash; someone gasped; and the next moment Rene had slumped to the floor cradling his head in both hands.

Shit.

"Peter!"

Breathless, Peter's wide eyes span from the man on the ground to his mother's pallid face, while the double helix sculpture slipped from his fingers and fell to the carpet with a thud.

Regret flooded him instantly, spilling over from the inside. Yet no matter how awful he felt for his actions still Peter bit back the urge to apologise or try to soften the fear in Angela's eyes. Rene groaned, still conscious thank god, and any lingering guilt was soon eclipsed by the sensation of Peter's abilities rushing back to comfort him, complete him, envelope him like a warm blanket in the storm.

He couldn't think. He didn't want to let it all in. Not yet. Not here. Not when his newly restored powers were still leaking through him one by one, and not when he needed to be strong for what he had to do next.

"Peter – wait!"

Angela made as if to approach, but recoiled when the motion sparked bright blue veins of electricity from Peter's fingertips and sent them rippling down his arms without his input. Physically trembling, he couldn't hide a single thought from his face or stop the badly restrained display of his powers from conveying every ounce of his heartbreak and every curse that he didn't say aloud.

So much for her precious 'family'.

Angela opened her mouth again, likely to plead this time, but she wasn't even afforded that chance. For Peter didn't want her excuses or bullshit justifications. He didn't want anything else from this master manipulator who had already done enough. So, refusing to let remorse bind him to this prison, Peter called on invisibility to save him as soon as he was able, and disappeared from sight without so much as a goodbye.

The last thing he saw was another choked gasp from his mother. And then he was falling, air brushing past his face and through his hair as he phased himself through the floor. Peter landed clumsily in an empty white corridor a few levels below, stumbling to catch his balance. Regeneration wasted no time in easing the impact, rushing to assist him as if to compensate for its absence before. And not for the first time Peter wished the ability would work on more than just physical pain.

Holy shit. Reeling, reality caught up to him at last like claws piercing his skin, drawing every warring emotion within to the surface instead of blood. And for a moment all he could do was dry the lingering wetness from his eyes and try to catch his breath. Fuck! Angela had really just-?! He'd almost been...?! And Sylar... If this was meant to feel similar to the sensation of tearing himself apart with a nuclear heat, then Peter was on the right track. Because after months of wondering how his mother could hate him enough to hunt him down like she had, Peter would never have imaged that misunderstanding would be more comforting than the truth.

At least, before, he had never let go the secret hope of reconciliation. But now he was shaken, stripped to his core, opening his eyes for the very first time while he bled from where he'd just severed himself from his mother for good. God, it hurt, but that blood infused strength to the current of his raging abilities, the pain stoking the fire like liquid purpose in his veins.

And suddenly he didn't want to waste another moment hiding here. It didn't matter that he didn't know where he was in the world, let alone this labyrnth of a building. Peter didn't care at all that he was severely outnumbered, that he still didn't have full control over his many superhuman abilities, or that he'd likely get captured again before he even managed to reach the imprisoned man who needed his help right now.

None of that stopped him from taking a deep breath, denying the fear that threatened to clip his wings already, and breaking into a run.

( )( )( )

Noah had never warmed to this space. It was too big, too open, like a glass tank in a laboratory somewhere; a carefully designed playground where every action was monitored constantly by unseen eyes. The feeling wasn't eased by his boss greeting him by name before even looking up from her laptop.

"Noah." Erica Kravid finished typing and crossed her arms on her desk, forcing a smile his way. "Tell me, how is our guest of honour settling in?"

Noah breathed slowly where he lingered in the doorway, the scents of fresh paint and new carpet still hovering in the air no matter how at home Erica had made herself in this office. It didn't ease the knot that was twisting in the pit of his stomach.

"Reluctantly." He confessed.

Even now, with more than five levels of the building between them, Noah was unable to stop Sylar's distraught yells from echoing in his ears as if he were still inside the prisoner's cell. The goosebumps hadn't yet faded on his arms.

Damn it. He just couldn't stop reliving the way Sylar had snapped upon hearing Peter Petrelli's fate. Maybe if he hadn't used a telepath to uncover the truth in Sylar's mind, and if said telepath's guilt hadn't been scrawled across his face afterward like a child had been set loose with a magic marker, then Noah could have convinced himself the murderer's reaction was just an act. That he was playing the victim just to mess with them – after all, Noah knew how compelling the guy could be when he put his mind to it.

As it was, however? It was getting harder and harder to slander the knowledge that collapsed in upon Noah like a broken dam wall.

But how could that be Sylar's grand weakness? His Achilles' heel? Noah wanted to believe it was an act, because otherwise it was too ridiculous. Too anti-climactic. Too unspectacular for this superhuman killing machine to be bested by such a reason as wanting to belong. Strange... Noah had always thought much more of the bastard than that. But Sylar hadn't denied it. He hadn't made some smart comment or even tried to laugh off Noah's claims. And Noah, it turned out, hadn't even needed a mind reader after all to render his captive exposed to the bone.

As if sensing the turn of his thoughts, Erica's eyes narrowed slightly, her smile stiffening further. "If I didn't know you better, Noah, I'd say you're having second thoughts about your grand victory." Her intentions were bare: the invitation open for Noah to disagree and re-affirm his competence and value within the mighty ranks of Renautas.

Instead, his voice got stuck in his throat.

This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to have just saved the world. Caught the bad guy. Won. But now that he was back here, standing in the same place he'd strode in just a few hours earlier, smug and victorious and with a hell of a win on his side, all Noah could think about was Elle Bishop.

He remembered the last time Sylar claimed to have reverted. The last time the enhanced superhuman had fashioned himself a human anchor for his issues. Elle had taken pity on him and been killed for her efforts, her body left to burn on the rising tide. Was that all she was worth for actually being stupid enough to believe Sylar was only misunderstood, that showing him kindness could change him? It wasn't the first time Noah had relived these thoughts, since. But now Sylar had a new play thing. And Noah had seen them together, too many times: he'd seen them fight together, flee together, protect one another, over and over again. He'd seem them cry for each other, die for each other, he'd seen much more of their intimacy than he would ever have believed had he not witnessed it himself through prophetic oils and canvas.

And Peter still hadn't been killed for misplacing his loyalty, like Elle had. And Noah was haunted by the less-than-stellar interrogation he'd just left down in the cells. He could still hate the cretin Sylar for his countless crimes – and hate, he would continue to do – but that didn't erase what he now couldn't unsee. The enigma that Elle had once found, the same spark of something that she'd died trying to prove: that maybe Sylar was capable of change, after all.

Noah sighed to himself while he crossed the abstractly coloured carpet, still plush under his shoes. "Erica... we have a problem." He declared, slowing to a stop across the desk from the strict woman sitting behind it. "I think we've got the wrong man."

He didn't want to second guess his perception of the murdering psychopath. The idea made him furious, more than embarrassed to have been proven wrong in his ways. But as much as Noah hated to admit such a thing as doubt to his superior, there was so much more at risk here than his ego.

Erica Kravid simply tilted her head, arching a severely-plucked eyebrow. "You do?"

Noah leaned both hands on the desk, fighting the urge to remove his glasses and wipe at his tired eyes in front of her. It wouldn't do to show such a sign of weakness. "What if I was wrong?" The statement hurt on the way up, going against every ingrained instinct to always stick to his guns. Yet Noah continued anyway, despite the dread his words inflicted within him not just for his entire operation and wasted months of his life, but for the sake of every life on Earth. "Dreams can be misinterpreted. The paintings don't always come true the way we expect. What if Petrelli and Sylar were telling the truth all along, and they have nothing to do with the fate of the world? That means there's someone – or something – still out there that does. And that we're wasting valuable time looking in the wrong places."

Noah braced himself to defend his piece, or to be dismissed or scolded, or maybe even fired for such a suggestion of incompetence and wasted resources on his part. However, Erica surprised him by merely smirking, then turning her attention back to her laptop screen.

"The fate of the world doesn't involve you any longer, Noah. You did your job, you should be proud. I doubted we'd ever get here. And I'm sure Angela Petrelli is very grateful you returned her son to her."

Noah stared, floored by this total lack of concern. Didn't she hear what he was saying? Didn't she care?! Or did she just not believe him? After months and months of constantly having to convince Erica Kravid of the importance of his mission, she would now easily just disregard his hard work as if it had all been for noth...?!

Oh.

The revelation hit Noah with the weight of a car, leaving him just as stunned, just as breathless, as the impact would for real.

"You... already knew this."

Erica gave him her confirmation by not even glancing up from her, apparently, more pressing work. And then Noah was enraged, anger simmering so close below the surface that even his trusty facade of ever-perpetuating calmness began to break.

"You knew it wasn't them? But sent me chasing them across the whole goddamned country anyway?!" Noah couldn't remember the last time he'd openly shouted at a superior. Then again, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so furious, either. "Why?! We lost good people! I almost died rounding them up! What the hell were you playing at? Is this some sort of game to you?!"

Erica tore her attention from her screen in order to purse bright fuchsia lips Noah's way. Normally the motion would have shocked him into obedience quicker than Mr Muggles responded to the call of 'walkies', but today its impact was lost on him. Erica addressed him quietly but sternly, the voice of a woman whose patience had served her well in life. "You played a part in a plan. One that is bigger than you. It's unfortunate that you overestimated your role within it."

"But the future-!"

"Is in hands much better equipped to handle it than yours."

For a moment Noah was speechless, afraid to splutter over the tsunami of questions that choked him all at once. What the hell kind of plan would continue from here? What else could Erica possibly want from his work now that Sylar was finally neutralised and in Renautas' care...?! Then, for the second time in as many minutes, Noah was blinded by an epiphany that exploded like a hundred light bulbs over his head. And he could only gape, hypnotised by the light that illuminated the lies and truths and the tangled mass of puppet strings that had been controlling him all along, hidden in plain sight until now.

Then dread erased Noah's anger like sand sprinkling over a fire. "Please don't tell me you used me... just to bring you Sylar?"

Erica leaned back in her chair with a condescending smile, drumming her nails rhythmically off the edge of the desk. "That evo is extremely dangerous. The risk is too high to let him remain free. What better place is there for him than here, where we can keep a close eye on him?"

"...You mean to recruit him."

"Mr Gray and his abilities will prove valuable assets moving forward in these uncertain times, yes."

Head spinning, Noah surprised himself as much as his boss by shouting into the silence. "Are you insane?!" He couldn't believe what he was hearing. How much of a sucker he'd been all along. That he'd been so obsessed catching Sylar that he honestly hadn't seen this coming.

"I've accomplished many things in my life, Noah. I assure you, insanity isn't one of them."

Noah slammed his hands upon the desk. "How the hell do you think this is gonna go? You think you'll be able to control him? With what leverage? At least Danko had him pegged with a shared motivation – and we all know how that worked out!" Pushing himself off the desk, Noah paced in a hollow attempt to work off his frustrations, just narrowly avoiding slapping a hand to his forehead. "D'you seriously think Sylar is easy enough to be won over by money, or an office with a view? He'll never work for us! And even if it might have been possible once, I'm pretty sure he's got other things in mind for the people who just wiped his boyfriend's memories!"

The nasty truth echoed around the glass tank of the office, pressing against the windows as if to try and escape and creep over the entire state of Colorado. Erica Kravid's face pinched in more displeasure than ever, and for the first time Noah dared to believe he'd actually gotten through to her and her madness.

"Alright." She slowly concurred, pursing her lips again. "Wipe him too, then see if we can't appeal to his... better nature." Noah's frame sagged in dejection as Erica gave him a curt nod and busied herself with her laptop once more. "That will be everything, Noah."

"But – but you can't just –!"

"That will be everything." Erica repeated, her glare piercing, as if daring Noah to release the flood of the splintering swears that he yearned to.

Stunned by the recklessness he'd just witnessed, Noah was equally as enraged by the shackles of inferiority that prevented him from doing a single thing about it. Just as he was sure he was about to say something that would definitely lose him his job for good – the sound of his ringtone drew him back to his senses. It took everything he had to swallow his rage and retrieve the device from his pocket, forcibly tearing his eyeline from Erica's to see who had just saved his career.

With a further sinking in his gut, Noah answered the call without even bothering to excuse himself first. "Angela? What's wrong?" He asked, stupidly wishing she was calling with good news, for a change.

"It's Peter." Angela sniffed. If Noah didn't know her so well it might have sounded like she had been crying. "He escaped. We lost him."

( )( )( )

Crash!

"Let me out!"

Crash!

"I need to speak to my father!"

Crash!

"You can't keep me in here!"

Claire threw the last book from the shelf with all her might, although she knew it would make no difference. The thing bounced harmlessly off the locked door and fell to the ground, joining the sizable pile of paperweights, cracked ornaments and other books marked with the battlescars of broken spines and bent pages. The door didn't budge. Nobody came to answer her cries.

Damn it! Having exhausted her latest resource, Claire huffed and looked wildly around her prison for anything else to vent her fury on. The Renautas office was large and grand, however the minimal modern décor meant Claire had nearly upturned the whole place already and there wasn't much left.

Acting out in frustration, she chucked the office chair across the room and watched it roll uselessly to the window. Then she tackled the desk – a slim design of white plastic-looking material that turned out to be much heavier than it looked. Gritting her teeth, Claire groaned aloud with the effort of pushing against the dead weight of the furniture. She refused to be beaten yet again! She had been fooled by her uncle's promise that everything would be okay; bested by her father's lies and self-serving plots; unable to prevent the people who had asked for her help from being encased in ice right before her eyes; Claire would be damned if this probably obscenely expensive toy desk was going to get the better of her too!

Feet slipping across the carpet, the teenager finally managed to pry the desk from the floor. She let out a yell while the thing toppled, the curdling rush of anger, uselessness and betrayal gifting her a strength she hadn't even known she had. The way the floor shook when the desk crashed over was satisfying in more ways than Claire would have expected.

Her moment of victory was interrupted, however, by a bleeping sound at the far side of the room. Still catching her breath, Claire span to glare daggers at the door when it opened at long last, but was surprised when it emitted a lanky, gothic young woman who looked like she'd rather be anywhere else on the planet than here, carrying a tray full of what appeared to be cafeteria food. Claire tried to pretend it wasn't disappointment she felt at her visitor's lack of familiarity, infallible charm, and horn-rimmed glasses.

"Stay right there, Princess." The girl scoffed, and only then did Claire realise she must work for Renautas and not have accidentally wound up here from the school lunch hall. The stranger blinked darkly-smudged eyes at the state of the room, and the expression that followed was probably supposed to be disapproving through the many layers of boredom. "You can throw as much of a tantrum as you want, little girl, it's not gonna work. No one cares about this bunch of broken crap." She stomped into the office on large chunky boots, raking a scathing eye over Claire.

Bristling, Claire tried to make herself appear as tall as possible, crossing her arms with a scowl. "Where is my father?"

"I'm sure he'll show up once he gets bored torturing prisoners in the basement."

Although the girl snorted in sick amusement, Claire honestly couldn't tell if she was joking. Taking a step closer, she fought to keep her voice even when all she could see was a trusting smile and kind eyes in her memory. "Where's Peter? What's happened to him?" It surprised her how quickly she had to stop herself from asking after the other prisoner too. The second man who Claire had failed in her attempts to help, whether she liked it or not.

The other girl ignored her question this time, instead faltering for a moment in the centre of the room while she tried to decide where to put the tray now that the entire office had been turned upside down. Claire hated feeling so inferior. How had she almost forgotten how it felt not to have a paid team who answered her every whim and treated her like someone important? And how could one day away from that life have reverted her back to just a dumb blonde cheerleader in everyone's eyes, never to be taken seriously?

Each second the agent wasted with her indecision made Claire's frustrations only grow heavier, as if she could hear the countdown closing on the only window of opportunity she had to try and make a difference. Because she had to do something! She couldn't just sit here! She had to at least try!

While her visitor struggled to right the chair with one scuffed, chunky boot and place the tray upon it, Claire didn't bother stemming the tears that gathered along her lashes. "Please," She pleaded, letting her feet carry her forward until she was close enough to make the agent's nose wrinkle at the proximity. "Please tell me what's going on. I just want to know that everyone's okay."

The tear that ran down her cheek scalded Claire, and the way the older girl surveyed her as if she were a pathetic crying child set her teeth on edge but didn't stop the tears. Because she couldn't outrun the guilt that she should have been better back there at the school, or the shame that her own father had had her shipped away in a van and locked up in this room like some sort of criminal. In comparison, she didn't give a damn what this jaded teenager thought of her.

"Listen, I only took this gig cause it gets me outta the surveillance room, I don't give a crap about your problems." The girl drawled, bumping into Claire to nudge her out the way of the exit. "I know your image is big on 'free the evos' or whatever, but if your friends ended up here? They must've done something to deserve it." Claire balled her fists as she watched the blurred form of the girl trudge away, shrouded in the doorway to freedom. She didn't try to stop her and didn't complain when the door slid shut and the jarring bleep of the lock told her Little Miss Sunshine was gone.

Instead, Claire waited until she was alone again before calmly wiping the tears from her face, and uncurling her fist to read the name on the stolen keycard sitting in her palm. Thank you, Taylor Kravid.

Sure, she might have been mostly useless, but she was also just what Claire had needed. It didn't matter that Taylor hadn't told her much of anything, because Claire was no stranger to the workings of the Company, or its methods of detaining its prisoners. The basement had been her first port of call anyway, since the moment she'd been dragged into this cell that was masquerading as a guest suite, complete with room service and a view. And it didn't matter that she could kick and scream and smash as much of this 'crap' as she liked and nobody would come looking.

Because that was exactly what she wanted.

Bracing herself, Claire swept the food tray off the chair, leaving its contents strewn across the floor. She lofted the chair, and with all her might she slammed it into the window, sending cracks creeping out in all directions like water dewing along a spider's web. It wasn't a clean break, but it was enough. Exhaling in pleasant surprise, Claire dropped the chair and backed into the centre of the office, basking in the drive of determination that rose up to greet her like an old friend.

She waited only long enough to secure Taylor Kravid' keycard carefully in her pocket. And then she sprinted straight at the window and the deadly fall waiting on the other side.

( )( )( )

Peter ran blindly, the burn of his muscles struggling to compete with his regeneration. His footsteps pounded through countless gleaming corridors like drumbeats announcing his arrival while he fought to juggle multiple abilities at once, as much as he was able, weaving through the crowds of nameless, faceless workers faster than they could search for the invisible force that had jostled them or the sound of unseen boots upon tile. He didn't care who they were. He didn't care that they might sound the alarm because he doubted he would even hear it over the ringing already sounding inside his own skull.

He didn't stop for any reason: not a locked door, nor an obstructed corridor, and especially not to let sense catch up and trip him like a rope lassoed around his ankles.

Peter's mind was tuned out like static while his heartbeat took the wheel. The air got colder as he wound lower through the unfamiliar building, and still he couldn't stand to think that he might be too late. He lost himself in the twisting bowels of this labyrinth: speeding past labs and conference halls and ominous rooms without any windows, never stopping to investigate and never doubting his path; simply following only the purest of gut feelings that guided him like an invisible thread that stretched on before him, imagining a faint tugging sensation from the other end that ever remained out of sight.

He knew he should have been worried for the future of the planet – without himself and Sylar to warn the others of the truth, nobody would even know that the danger was far from over. Yet, brighter than the promised flurry of glowing ashes, Peter was blinded by the pleasant memory of sunset touching his face atop the blimp. The brush of company warming his side. The whisper of a quiet voice in his ear that sent shivers down his spine.

Y'know, I don't regret it... you and me... if Noah gets us? I just wanted you to know that.

Even now Sylar's words encased Peter's heart, gently soothing the wounds there like wiping away the scars. But Peter didn't agree with him.

He did regret it. He regretted the way they had left things: torn off at the seam before he was ready. Sylar might have been preparing earlier for the very real possibility of a goodbye, but as usual Peter had been blind and deluded to the truth! He hadn't wanted to believe it, he'd simply hoped things would work out in the end, and he hadn't said enough before, he hadn't said anything, and now he couldn't bear the thought that it was going to end this way.

What about everything they'd been through? What about forgiveness? What about trust? What about a hundred black eyes and bloody noses and the moments that came next, the silence after the storm where they had no other choice but to return to each other? What about all the secrets exchanged, what about all the tears? What about a quietly prepared bowl of cornflakes waiting for him every morning although Peter had never asked for it? It seemed impossible that it all could be washed away as easily as chalk upon stone, when the memories should have been carved so deeply they could never be erased.

It was out of defiance, out of fear and protectiveness and the stubbornness he was born with that Peter finally reached the sprawling basement levels of Renautas and ventured inside, sparing not so much as a thought to if he'd ever get out again.

( )

Sylar's yell grated in his throat.

It faded with another grunt of pain, another gasp that tore at his lungs just the same as all the others had. He struggled fruitlessly with his restraints and writhed again, tugging through the pain with the remaining strength he had left. It hurt! Fuck! Fuck! But still Sylar persisted, gritting his teeth and fighting for the slightest chance, the faintest leak of his abilities to return to him and make him powerful. But trying to pry the needles from his spine was as useless as trying to pry tree roots from the earth with his own two hands.

He fought to catch a breath, the rattling of his shackles echoing loudly around the empty cell. His wrists were sore and chafed, his back was aflame and he wasn't sure if his t-shirt was clinging to his skin due to sweat or due to blood oozing from the incisions. He couldn't feel his legs, his chest was compressing so tightly it might bruise, and he could barely see a thing in the total blackness of his cell, even if his eyes hadn't been blinded by tears.

Shadows loomed in the corners of the room, watchful, waiting, the perfect place to shroud any manner of monster. But Sylar wasn't afraid of this place. Not anymore. For what pain was simple torture or having his mind assaulted by his old abuser compared to being forgotten?

Sylar wished Parkman hadn't told him what was to happen to Peter after all. It might have been better never to know, and to cherish the hope throughout his eternal captivity that someone, somewhere out there, was missing him. But now Bennet had won, and the only good thing Sylar had ever had in his life was to be destroyed, and it was all Sylar's fault for accidentally ending up caring for the one person in the world who would fight like hell to save him.

He should be blaming Peter Petrelli for getting him into this mess – and, god, Sylar wanted to. He wished he could resent the little bastard for pushing his plan to find Noah, for not listening to reason, for being so stupid as to actually trust Tracy Strauss, for taking a chance on someone who clearly didn't deserve it! But the golden heart that had allowed all that was Sylar's favourite thing about the man. And he could no sooner hate it than he could secure his own freedom from this prison.

Forced yet again to give up his escape attempts, Sylar shivered not at the chill of the cell, but at the contrasting heat of the tears that ran down his face. He was long past knowing if they fell from pain or from regret. Truthfully, he didn't even know why he was trying so hard to get free anymore. According to Parkman, it might already be too late.

This was exactly why he'd never used to let anyone or anything get close in his old life. Because loneliness is safer. It's harder to get hurt that way. But now, Sylar couldn't even begin to acknowledge the truth of his condition as it wrecked him inside worse than anything he'd known before; because Elle had never truly loved him, and his mother had only loved an idea of who she wanted him to be, and it was Sylar's own decisions and actions that had removed them both from his life. But Peter had been stolen from him, and Sylar had never known this feeling. He still couldn't believe he even knew how it felt to have something real to lose. It had taken years to get that far, required the perfect habitat to allow something so rare and beautiful to grow, and a shitload of superhuman dedication on both mens' parts to learn to trust like they had.

And Sylar knew that even if he did somehow escape this prison and find his way back to a Peter who didn't remember the life they'd lived, and if he tried to remind him, Peter would never listen to a thing he had to say. Understandably, he wouldn't do any favours for the bastard who had destroyed his life. There was no way in hell they'd be allowed the same kind of isolation necessary to rebuild what had been lost. It was a once in a lifetime phenomenon, which was why it was so special. It was a perfect mistake that could never be replicated again.

Once more, Sylar summoned the dying scraps of his strength and hauled against his restraints to no avail. He mewled without meaning to, the strangled sound of his vocal chords rebounding off the walls of the cell to smother him again. Then he just heaved for breath, closing his eyes against the blackness of his cell, against the ugly truth of his reality.

Maybe it would be kinder to let Peter go...? Away from Sylar, he'd have a home. He wouldn't be hunted at every turn, he'd be free to live a real, rewarding life, free to be welcomed back into what was left of his family. For Sylar knew, although Peter had rarely said as such, how much it hurt the sensitive man to be exiled from his loved ones for all this time. Exiled purely for his loyalty to a disgusting wretch of a killer.

And maybe Sylar shouldn't fight what was going to happen? Maybe he should learn from the mistakes of his future self and sacrifice his own desires to spare everyone else more pain? Because Sylar could believe, far too close to his heart, that in time he could let the entire world end rather than let go of what he wanted. He believed it because he felt the exact same way now. But he didn't want to become the person he was foretold to be in the future; he wanted to be better. He wanted to outgrow the promise of his fate. But he also wanted to tear himself free from these shackles and burn the entire building to the ground, rampaging and ravaging until he'd reclaimed what he was missing, safe and sound and nobody else's!

Most of all, he just didn't want to lose the only friend he'd ever known.

( )

Goosebumps formed on Peter's skin due to the considerable drop in temperature down here, his breath clouding out before him as he ran.

Protected by a veil of invisibility, he slipped along a new series of long, low-ceilinged corridors. Peter had never set foot in this particular basement before, yet he couldn't mistake it: a prison block of cells lining each wall, a gaping, rectangular window inset into each one... But it certainly wasn't the same Primatech base that he had visited frequently in a past life. This place was new, every inch covered in the same white ceramic finish that coated the entire building, streamlined security pads stamped next to every door, bright fluorescent strip lights spanning the length of the ceiling. Perhaps most jarring of all, however, was the lack of inhabitants in any of the cells.

It wasn't the first time Peter had seen such a disturbing phenomenon. The renovated Primatech headquarters in Odessa had been the same last time Peter was there. It was just as creepy a sight now as it had been then. Because if Renautas weren't keeping their many captives in here... where were they?

"Sylar?" He called, desperately searching every cell that blurred past. With every step his heart grew heavier, and with every stretching second that came and went without a reply Peter only clung tighter to the now taut, invisible thread that had led him here on certainty alone. "Sylar?!"

Just as despair began to cloud his senses, Peter stumbled to a stop at the end of another identical row of cells. For a moment he just stood there, fear and hopelessness encircling his throat.

And then he saw him.

Weak with relief, Peter pelted along the tiled floor, his breathing loud in his ears and his boots likely loud enough to draw attention that he didn't need, but he didn't care. As he grew closer to another identical large window at the far end of the corridor, it all faded into focus: the figure Peter would know anywhere, alive and conscious and finally within reach! But that brimming gratitude faded when he processed the state of his friend chained up against the wall, distress rolling off his form in waves. Sylar looked utterly exhausted, pale and drawn and painfully tugging at the bonds that held him up on display for all who passed this way. He was crying although there was no sound, his eyes shut tight, his teeth bared, fighting his fate with the same strength that Peter had been awed by even long before he'd admired it.

And Peter didn't know the words to express the feelings this sight erupted within him, now.

Already spent from the run, he still managed to pick up the pace for the final stretch, securing his abilities as a hunter would a spear before the charge. Legs burning, chest heaving, he braced himself; forced his mother's words out of reach; and ran straight at the window, still invisible, preparing to phase himself thr –

( )

Thump.

Startled, Sylar froze in his pointless escape attempts. He listened. But there was nothing over the thudding of his own heart. Only silence. His eyes scanned the darkness although there was nothing new to see in here. But he'd definitely just heard something – a bang, a thud, the faintest of noises that didn't come from him, but from somewhere else nearby.

Nothing looked different. Even the opaque black glass opposite him hadn't changed in the slightest. But Sylar could feel it in the air, shifting subtly beneath his skin.

He wasn't alone anymore.

( )

What the...?

Winded, Peter caught his shaken balance by leaning both hands against the window. The bruises should have faded before they could even form, yet Peter's body continued to ache from having just ran flat into a reinforced pane of glass. Confused, he locked gazes with the pallid man framed in the window before him. Except it wasn't Sylar, as it had been the moment before. It was his own, very solid, very visible, reflection. Oh god.

Too late, Peter recognised the sensation of emptiness where his powers should be. It still didn't stop him from pounding his hands harder against the glass and still hoping in vain that they would phase through.

"No!" He breathlessly realised aloud. "Sylar!" He called, but the prisoner shackled just out of reach didn't even twitch in response: having fallen still now, with dark hair spilled across his face, his eyes roved sightlessly over the spot Peter stood. And Peter didn't need the sinking of his heart to tell him the other man couldn't even see him.

"That's close enough, Peter."

Shaky on his feet, the empath wheeled around to see the inevitable crowd pouring in upon him. A collection of armed agents and M.F. Harris duplicates flanked Noah Bennet, his mother, and Rene, the latter sporting a darkening bruise on his forehead and staring with such intensity that Peter had no doubt he was currently caught beneath the man's spell.

And he was helpless to stop the fight from leaving his bones, along with every one of his abilities and the last dying dregs of hope. Peter backed up into the cold sheet of glass, pressing against it as far as he could go, as though he would miraculously fall clean through and reach his destination this way.

It didn't work.

( )

Claire sped-walked through the building, blending in with countless Renautas employees scurrying around wrapped up in their own business. She had anticipated more resistance than she met, but the stolen lab coat must have concealed most of the blood from the fall and Taylor Kravid's keycard rendered every locked door open to her. Nobody paid any attention to the flustered and slightly bedraggled girl winding through the corridors, keeping her head down and following signposted directions while pretending she already knew where she was going.

And so she hurried, wielding the keycard like a lifeline and picking up the pace the closer she got to the elevator. It was only when she ducked inside a gratefully empty car and the doors slid shut that Claire paused for the first time to catch a breath, backing into the wall and willing the digital floor numbers to roll lower at a quicker pace.

( )

"Please don't do this." Peter croaked out a pitiful plea, shaking his head hopelessly. "I can't leave him here."

It didn't matter that he already knew in his heart that he'd lost. That didn't stop fear from clamping down on him tighter when the Harris duplicates broke off from the pack to draw in on him on all sides, half a dozen guns locked onto Peter's currently very mortal chest. Trembling in place, he still tried to look defiant as he searched beyond the Harrises for any weak link in the chain of impenetrable Company agents. He found none.

Angela's face was pinched and lined and somehow older-looking than just minutes before, as she wore no mask of homeyness to hide behind this time. "Rene." The simple command sounded hollow in the dull echo of the corridor.

Peter's eyes burned with more tears that he could never have dreamed of hiding, his lips trembling and throat strangling his voice for all to know how badly he was hurting. "You're wrong about him! About us!" He insisted breathlessly. It was the same claim he must have yelled at least a hundred times since returning to reality from Parkman's mind trip, but just like the hundred times before – nobody believed him. Peter's chest constricted painfully, his knees buckled and his hands scrabbled uselessly against the glass at his back, as if he could somehow draw courage from Sylar's mere proximity, from how close he'd come to almost being able to save him. "You d-don't understand, this won't change anything! It doesn't have to be this way! It's something else – the future – it's not us! It's not him!"

"It's too late for that, now, Peter. I'm sorry." Noah sighed, the weary lines by his eyes and mouth only confirming his sincerity. "I really am."

"No!" Peter cried out when the Harrises grabbed him at once, shoved him around and manhandled him face-first against the cold observational window. He kicked and protested against the ceaseless violations, trying to pull himself free from hot breath on his neck and hands that held him so tight he thought his bones might break but he wasn't strong enough. His cheekbone ached against the window and his heart hammered so hard he hoped it would shatter the glass, but it didn't. And Rene approached him slowly, eerily, and Angela's face crumpled for the first time as Peter's voice began to break. "NO! Please! Ma! Don't!"

None of it was any use. Peter's desperate screams for this to stop, for help, for Sylar, all rebounded off the walls of the corridor but nobody listened. They only watched, a silent, sombre ring of witnesses to the crime. Nothing prevented Rene from drawing closer until soon all Peter was aware of were his fingertips curling against the window and his own tears rolling down the glass, smearing the reflection of dark, unblinking eyes being eclipsed by the palm of a hand.

Then something warm touched his forehead. And everything went black.

( )

Sylar felt it, somehow.

He couldn't explain it. He still couldn't see or hear a thing outside his soundproof prison. Yet, like a katana blade tearing open his old scar, something twisted inside his chest so painfully that he feared he might pass out from the sensation alone.

Slumping in his restraints, for a long moment Sylar was only aware of his own ragged breathing and the thundering of his aching heart.

And he knew... he was alone again.

( )

She was too late. Claire could feel it even before running to a stop at the end of the long, basement corridor and peeking around the corner into another. The place was already ringing with the aftermath of a crisis, a hum of low voices and slow, shuffling footsteps that lacked any sense of urgency.

But that didn't make it any easier to accept the sight that awaited her.

Claire almost slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the gasp that got stuck somewhere in her throat. Unseen on the outskirts of the scene, she watched as her uncle's unconscious form was lifted by multiple of the same duplicating men who had dragged her from Union Wells parking lot. Pliant and peaceful, Peter might have only been asleep had it not been for the tears still staining his cheeks or the looks the Haitian, Angela Petrelli and, yes, even her own father wore plastered over their own faces. And Claire knew she had just missed the trio enact what must have been their countless heartless scheme upon an innocent.

The urge to jump out of hiding and fight her way to Peter tugged at her instincts, yet she was rooted to the spot by something so much stronger than that. Unable to take her eyes off her hero as he was carefully passed between the duplicating men, Claire struggled to accept the fact that she'd seen him dead before; seen him pale and coughing and bleeding; being consumed by a nuclear heat; powerless and betrayed by his own father; drugged and chained on a government plane; tied to a stretcher with tears on his face and a bullet in his chest; and yet... until now she wasn't sure she'd ever seen him look so vulnerable.

Before her thoughts could go wild supplying all kinds of possible tortures that had been done to Peter, however, she ducked back out of sight when her father's voice rang dully throughout the corridor. "Go home, Angela. Look after your son. He'll need you when he wakes."

"Save your judgement, Noah. We both know I'm not the only one here who's done what was necessary to protect a loved one. It's for his own good."

"And? Are you happy now?"

Claire listened to the long silence that followed.

Finally, Mrs Petrelli cleared her throat, her voice hard. "And what about Sylar?" She sniffed. Claire's heart skipped a beat at the name.

Noah sighed, and even from here Claire knew the expression that went with that sound. The one he'd use when she would challenge him, when he didn't like what he was agreeing to but had been overruled on the matter. "Erica wants to erase his memories as well. He won't chase after Peter. You two can have the perfect little... family... that you fought so hard to get."

Claire balled her fists, struggling not to make a sound. So that's what they'd done to Peter? Erased his memories? How many? How far back? How much had they stolen from his life...? Having already possessed a personal grudge against that particular means of 'problem-solving', Claire couldn't even begin to comprehend what this meant just yet. Not when she'd just failed her hero so much worse than simply letting him be caught and imprisoned in ice by the enemy. Oh, Peter...

Angela's piercing stare was so palpable that Claire could practically hear it. "Very well. I'll send Rene back once we've secured Peter. I can't chance him waking up before we've left the building."

The former cheerleader crept to the corner once again, peering around just in time to see her grandmother turn her back on Noah to gather one of Peter's hands in hers. Claire watched as her uncle was carried out of sight by the duplicating men, closely followed by the Haitian and Angela Petrelli, the echo of her high heels lingering long after their departure.

For a moment only Noah and three duplicates remained behind. Noah seemed to shrink a little once he thought he was unwatched, removing his glasses and rubbing a hand over his tired face. Once, Claire would have been tempted to feel sorry for him. It didn't work this time. The company man before her was unfamiliar as the same guy who Claire had grown up with. The one who had taught her to read and who snored through her favourite movies and who never returned from a 'work trip' without a new teddy bear for her collection. She couldn't recognise him now.

While Noah replaced his glasses and left with the remaining three agents, speaking in a tone too low to carry, Claire retrieved Taylor Kravid's trusty keycard from her pocket. The thing felt useless now, no longer that lifeline, but a small slip of meaningless plastic that couldn't undo what had just been done to Peter.

She leaned back against the wall, closing her fist around the keycard. So she'd failed. Again. And Peter had been taken. And they were going to wipe Sylar's memories too, just as they had Peter's.

That knowledge shouldn't have bothered Claire as much as it did. But Peter had cared for that man, in a way she'd never seen him care about anyone else before. And Claire cared about Peter. Even if at this current moment she wished she didn't, so that she wouldn't have to do what came next.

( )( )( )

Claire hesitated in the doorway when the door bleeped open, peering inside into the dark.

As was merely routine by this point, she was rushed with instant rage upon setting eyes upon the man within. What she didn't expect, however, was to be so affected by the sight of him shackled to the wall like this, or the despair that practically dripped from his frame. And even though she'd rather jump from the Statue of Liberty than lift a finger for this bastard who had slaughtered his way through her life and loved ones, even in the dark it was an unsettling sight to see another powerful figure reduced to something as small as this so soon after seeing the same thing happen to Peter.

Refusing to be scared off, Claire slipped inside the cell and crept towards the slumped form of her enemy. Except, he didn't look like her enemy now.

Head bowed, eyes unfocused and face flushed, Sylar's breath stuttered like that of a freezing man, fluttering the ends of his hair that tried and failed to hide him from view. His wrists were rubbed raw beneath the bonds than encircled them and blood seeped from his spine, staining the demeaning, papery garments that loudly branded him a prisoner. He was shivering, the goosebumps on his arms just visible in the light from the open doorway.

Until now, Claire had never even imagined he could experience such a normal reaction as cold.

Such an invasive glimpse of the man inside the beast, the face behind the mask, the heart beating beneath the armour that had been stripped from his unwilling form wasn't anywhere near the triumph Claire had always imagined it would be. Stopping directly in front of him, her gut constricted with a lurch of empathy that briefly overrode the hatred churning inside.

"What do you want?" Sylar didn't look up even as his rough murmur echoed around the cell. Even as a fresh tear slid slowly down his face.

Just the sound of his voice broke the spell. Crossing her arms tightly, Claire stood as tall as she could manage although the tethered man still had a good few inches on her. It took a second for the words to form, yet not due to the connotations of them that still repulsed her, but the name that suddenly hurt to say aloud.

"Peter told me what happened between you two. What Matt Parkman did to you."

Sylar's eyelids fluttered closed at this. The fragility of the motion didn't match the snarl that crept past his lips. "He told me you were going to help us."

"Hey, I'm trying -" Claire retorted, but all defensiveness drained away when Sylar's head snapped up and he rattled desperately at his handcuffs, causing her to jump back another step.

"Then do something!" He pleaded furiously, his cries rebounding a dozen times around the pair. "Help Peter before they ruin him! They're going to wipe his memories! They'll take ev-everything! Everything we..." His voice tore off in a choked sound, his eyes burning like coals beneath the anguished twist of his brow.

Shaken, Claire was unable not to stare. The killer didn't even seem to care that he was crying right in front of her, leaking an overflowing well of emotion that Claire hadn't ever thought him capable of before now. So he really did feel. He could cry. The drops of blood creeping from his handcuffs were a deep, dark red against pale skin, something so very human shining through from below, something real that truly existed inside of him. And suddenly Claire couldn't un-see the truth she had never been able to believe before.

Sylar was a killer, yes, and a self-righteous son of a bitch who had destroyed countless lives like a remorseless hurricane over the years. But he wasn't a monster. He was just a man. And even though Claire still despised said man more than she had despised anything else in her life... for the very first time, she actually felt sorry for him.

( )

"It's too late." Claire said stiffly. "They already got him."

Sylar wavered in place. The words hurt worse than the needles currently lodged in his spine, and he forgot how to breathe. Truthfully he'd already known, in his heart, that it was over. But hearing it said aloud so definitively only made it so much worse.

He should have protected him. Protected Peter, who must have been alone and outnumbered and frightened, who would have been reckless and defiant as always, but it wasn't enough to luck his way out of trouble this time. Sylar should have been there for him. Just as Peter had been there for him through every endless day of hell and self-discovery and painful, bleeding redemption... And now Sylar trembled when it truly hit, and the broken walls of his heart were ripped further to pieces at the realisation that Peter no longer remembered a single minute of the thousands they had lived through together.

Struggling to draw breath, Sylar didn't know how long he just stood there with tears trickling down his cheeks with no regard to who was watching, the murky cell blotting out of sight until all he was aware of was memories of empty streets in an empty city, but this time nobody was coming to save him.

Faintly, he heard Claire clear her throat somewhere nearby. She must have been uncomfortable here but Sylar didn't give a fuck about her. He didn't give a fuck about anything, not even himself. Because the only thing he'd ever allowed himself to truly care about was gone.

"I couldn't help Peter. But that doesn't mean I can't still help you."

Sylar let his aching eyelids slide closed. Any other time that offer from that girl would have been enough to render him speechless. But now? "Don't waste your efforts, cheerleader."

"They're coming back for you. They're gonna erase your memories just like they did to Peter."

"Then let them."

Claire huffed, and Sylar pried open his eyes to see a blurry, perplexed shape glowering up at him. "But I have this!" The shape whipped something small from her pocket, and Sylar blinked through a hot film of tears to identify it. A Renautas keycard. "It must work on this thing! I can get you outta here!" Claire proposed, clinging to the card as if it was actually supposed to give him hope.

Instead, Sylar shook his head. "What's the point?" He said dully, tasting salty tears on his lips while he sniffled. He hated the sound. He hated himself. "Set me free so they can hunt me again? Or so I can kill every last person associated with this goddamned company?"

The teenager's eyes narrowed, then. She took a moment to cross her arms firmly, retreating another step from him. "Y'know I almostbelieved it? I almost thought you'd changed." She scoffed at her own stupidity. "But now I see you're just as selfish and self-serving as ever."

Sylar would have resented the way she was looking at him even an hour ago. Now, he craved her disgust, her hatred, anything that might dull the might of his own self-loathing.

"Peter trusted you! I don't understand it, but he did. Because that's who he is: a good person!" Claire continued, hissing her words at him through her teeth. "He loved you." She looked as bewildered by this fact as Sylar was to hear it said aloud for the very first time. He choked on the lump in his throat, shivering at the goosebumps that sprang to life at that word. "And now he needs you, and you're not even gonna try and help him?!"

Sylar shuddered, turning his face away as if he could escape the accusation. Memories bloomed, unbidden, until he couldn't tear himself free from the reprieve of the shabby hotel room the other night. He was gazing at Peter above him, a dark river of hair hanging down over that face, swaying with the rhythm of their breathing. Peter was looking right back down, engrossed in what he saw, truly, deeply looking, taking it all in while entirely present in the moment. This was what Sylar remembered most vividly about that night. Their closeness. The connection, more than in the physical sense. And Peter was smiling at him, like he felt it too. Flushed red lips curved up at one side in amusement, in deep affection, and he wasn't even self-conscious of conveying so many private thoughts in the gesture, as if he wasn't even aware he was doing it, as if it should always be like this, that's just how it went. And Peter didn't realise how special that was or how winded Sylar felt to be worthy of such a huge but simple act as adoration. Sylar smiled back and reached up to push that curtain of hair out of Peter's eyes but it cascaded back down again and Peter laughed, and Sylar's heart caught in his chest, and Peter dipped down to gift him their hundredth kiss, as if it was always this easy between them, as if they hadn't fought like hell to get here.

And now Sylar had only this memory of him to cherish. A faint scrap of a life that was as formless as smoke, that was going to be stolen from him too. But maybe he should consider himself lucky. For even that wouldn't be as bad as seeing Peter look at him with no recollection, knowing only loathing in place of the trust they had shared.

( )

"I can't." Sylar's soft confession fell flat at Claire's feet.

She resisted the urge to hit the man, to try and shake him to his senses. "Since when can Sylar not do what he sets his mind to? Huh? You kill people to take the abilities you want! You infiltrated the white house and nearly became President just for the hell of it! What's stopping you this time? It's not fun unless you're hurting someone?" She grit her teeth, stomping to put herself in front of Sylar's line of sight when he tried to evade her again. "Peter will be a prisoner in his own life. And you're just gonna leave him that way? If you care about him at all, you know he would do anything to help you if it was the other way around."

Claire watched as this sank in through the mix of drugs, wallowing and tangible self-hatred. Sylar's gaze met hers with the most sense of clarity she'd found in it so far. But instead of spearing her with determination or power or, hell, she would even take his sickening arrogance at this point, he only blinked slowly at her.

"If I managed to reach him... he wouldn't recognise me. Just the monster who murdered his brother." His eyelids slid shut, another tear spilling free. "And... without him. I can't trust myself not to become that person again." He paused to breathe deeply, his fingers twitching and a furrow forming between his brows. "Maybe I'm better off here after all."

Swallowing harshly, Claire was surprised by how much she could be humbled by someone she despised so. Sylar was right: he was better off locked away in here for the rest of time. He deserved it. He'd more than earned it after doing worse to so many innocent people. But hearing such a thing from his own mouth was the last thing Claire had ever expected. And, grudgingly, she had to admit it challenged her resolute assumptions of the killer. She should want to leave him here to rot. And part of her did. It was just a shame he was so deeply involved with someone who meant so much to Claire.

Frowning, it took her two tries to recover her voice. "You're only a monster if you give up on your friend." Still wielding Taylor Kravid's keycard in her grasp, she didn't even flinch before stepping up to the murderer and slipping the keycard into one of the thick cuffs around his wrist, concealing it entirely from sight. She stared down Sylar's questioning look. Strange. He wasn't as frightening up close as he'd used to be. "For if you change your mind." She explained, stepping back to a more comfortable distance and crossing her arms tight.

The man's brows eased a little and his lips twitched, as if he had tried to say something before thinking better of it. Claire didn't let herself dwell on it. She nodded at him, a tense understanding, and turned her back, her footsteps ringing as she crossed to the sliver of light in the doorway.

"Claire."

The sound of her name paused her briefly in her tracks. Claire looked back over her shoulder, almost surprised the non-patronizing mode of address had actually come from Sylar.

He looked at her for a long moment. "I'm sorry. For everything."

Claire bristled despite the simple words being long, long overdue. Perhaps it was that it had taken the impending loss of his self of identity for him to muster such a gesture that did it, or that it felt cheapened by the fact that in a few minutes he wouldn't even remember having stepped off his high horse to finally acknowledge he'd done her wrong. Still, she could appreciate the intention. That didn't mean she accepted it.

"I'm sorry for what they've done to you." Claire replied tightly, because it was true and it was easier than dredging up years of anger and what she really wanted to say.

Sylar didn't seem to mind the dodge of his apology. Instead the pair shared a mutual, silent exchange unlike they ever had done before, until Claire set off to the door again without looking back. She slipped out into the too-bright, fluorescent lighting of the corridor, securing the door behind her. Shedding the stolen Renautas lab coat as if it could also shed the claustrophobia of the basement, Claire took a deep breath of musty smelling air.

Then she turned away from Sylar's cell. And bumped smack-dab into Noah.

( )

He wasn't angry. He wasn't even surprised. Of course a guarded and locked room on the seventh floor of the building wouldn't be enough to hold Claire. Noah was just so, unbelievably tired. And he wished things hadn't ended up this way.

He didn't even get a word out before his daughter beat him to it.

"How could you?" She seethed, unashamed of her escape and only glaring up at Noah with pure disgust on her youthful, make-up free face. Maybe it hurt more than he had expected because she looked so much more like his little girl than the media superstarlet she'd blossomed into.

Noah sighed, rubbing his forehead. This wasn't how he'd wanted to finally reconcile with his daughter after months apart. In his imagination she had actually missed him, he had prepared an adorable bribe of some kind to help win her round, and they weren't arguing in a cold basement in front of a Haitian and multiple instances of a duplicating man.

"Peter trusted you." Claire spat, her hands balled into fists at her sides, a display of defense. Noah didn't need her rage to anger the already formed bruise on his conscience regarding Peter's treatment. The executive decisions were above Noah's pay grade, as he had so recently been reminded. However, that didn't mean Noah was going to be able to forget the young man's desperate pleas for help anytime soon. "I trusted you." Claire hissed, burning Noah with the accusation crackling in her eyes.

"We'll talk about this later, Claire." Noah said curtly, reaching as if to shepherd the teenager away from the door of Sylar's cell, Noah's next unwitting conquest. She recoiled from his touch.

"Why? So you can try to win me over with more of your lies?" Shaking her head, Claire drew in a long breath that shook from more than just rage. "I jumped from that Ferris Wheel because I wanted a better world for people like me. And I can't believe I ever thought you did too." She waved a trembling hand at the occupied cell behind her. "You're torturing people. Wiping their memories? Ripping lives apart as if they're something less than human? Is this who you've become, Dad?" The teenager took a step back then, contempt marring her pretty face. "Or is this who you've always been?"

Noah wasn't sure if the tearing of his chest was visible from the outside. He couldn't blame Claire. He couldn't find the words to reply. And he couldn't deal with this most crucial part of his life falling apart in front of an audience when he still had work to do. "Make sure she gets home." He commanded gruffly, nodding at the three Harris duplicates.

"I'm not going home." Claire dodged their reaching hands, scowling up at Noah the exact same way she had as a defiant kid refusing to go to sleep well past bedtime. If only he could just scoop her into his arms and tickle her until she smiled her bright smile at him again. "I think it's about time I put my platform to good use." She declared, fierce green eyes looking hard through Noah's horn-rimmed glasses. "If nobody else is gonna help evos fight for a better life; I will."

This time, Claire allowed the Harrises to draw close, although she tugged free of their hands to walk of her own accord. Noah watched his little girl leave him behind with her head held high and no sign of hesitance in her step.

He still couldn't find any words. And he didn't know how to salvage this scarred and patch-worked bridge as it burned before his eyes yet again, with the awful sinking feeling in his gut that maybe this would be the last time.

( )( )( )

All was silent within the small plane. A dense blanket of introspection, interrupted only by the faint grumble of the engines and the whisper of distance passing outside the windows. It flew steadily, the spires of Renautas' main headquarters falling further and further behind as New York City grew ever closer on the horizon.

Angela had barely moved a muscle since take-off. She only continued the repetitive motion of stroking her fingers over her son's hair and face, cradling his head carefully in her lap as he lay sleeping across the seats. She didn't even look at him. She was soothed by his presence alone, the warmth of his body, the quiet sound of his breathing in the otherwise empty plane. And as soon as he opened those big, beautiful eyes upon her they would be filled with a love and adoration Angela hadn't received from him in a long, long time.

She desisted her petting only to catch the tear that sneaked free from her lashes. She knew how badly she had just hurt her remaining baby. Exactly how much she had just taken from him. She couldn't shake the way he'd looked at her back there, just how much of his heart he'd spilled aloud. And she knew Peter would hate her beyond repair if he ever found out what she'd just done. But still she didn't regret it. It was for the best. She truly believed she had spared him from a fate worse than death, averted the apocalypse that had claimed her nightmares for months, now.

Peter twitched in his sleep, his fingers reaching restlessly for something. Angela held them until he settled. Her gaze didn't stray from the golden clouds outside when she resumed the gentle stroking of Peter's hair, afraid to lose contact with any part of him for more than a second.

As the plane soared onward, she kept reminding herself that it was over. She had her son back. He was hers again. He was safe.

Maybe, finally, Angela could sleep soundly tonight.

A/N: Wow, this turned out to be a loooong chapter, but I hope it was engaging and emotional throughout! There was a lot to fit in here, a lot of shifting relationship dynamics to get through. Everything so far has been building to this moment, after all...

Thanks for reading, if you've stuck with me, the story and the guys for all this time I can't even express how grateful I am X) We're definitely amping up to the big finale soon, and even though that's Peter and Sylar's memories of each other having been erased, don't go thinking there'll be any shortage of angst or drama coming up next...

P.S. I know that in Heroes memories can be returned if the person has regeneration, but my take on it here is that because Peter will still remember Sylar, just as his enemy, he can't just look at a photo of him and have everything come pouring back as it did for Nathan in season 2, it would have to take a lot more than that this time.