By the time Gabriel was able to orient himself after the explosion, chaos had already erupted.

Bodies pushed in on him from every side. He could hear screams, both internal and external as his powers kicked in. Scattered thoughts and groans of pain had him pressing the palms of his hands to his ears, forcing himself to shut his powers down, something he'd have trouble with in the past when he was overstimulated. By the time he could hear again, many people had fled the room, leaving streaks of blood in their wake. Those who were left behind were in various stages of dead or dying, and Gabriel ignored them as his eyes went straight to the stage.

He could see Claire lying on the ground, her leg bent at a grotesque angle, and Peter's limp body being dragged away by two figures in all black.

He didn't hesitate before running after the figures. He knew Claire could take care of herself; she had proven that before, and she would heal. Peter, however, would not. Gabriel couldn't even remember which power he was currently carrying around with him, but whatever it was did him no good if he was passed out.

"Stop!" he shouted, but his voice was lost in the din of chaos that surrounded him. His feet slid in the blood that was splattered on the floor, slowing him down just enough for the figures to turn the corner behind the stage. It was only with effort that he forced himself past Claire's body, ignoring the strange press of guilt on his chest as he moved on. She'd be fine, he knew; but Peter wouldn't.

He had just stepped into the hallway when the figures turned into a room at the end. Gabriel had barely started after them when another figured stepped out and blocked his way, so suddenly that he nearly stumbled. A woman was standing in front of him, her fist clenched as flames flared from her fingertips. The few people remaining in the building saw her and screamed, pushing past him even harder to get to the exit. She grinned, showing rows of straight white teeth as she sent a wave of flames straight at Gabriel's face.

He lifted his hand and batted the flames aside, adrenaline fueling his movements almost automatically.

"I already know that trick," he growled, sending her flying back against the wall. She hit the wall hard, leaving an imprint in her wake as Gabriel hurried towards the room he'd seen Peter dragged into. He had only taken another step when he felt a sharp pain in the back of his shoulder. He reached back, yanking the knife out with a quick tug, feeling a curse tear from his lips as the flesh knitted itself back together.

"Stay and play, Sylar," she said. Gabriel paused at the sound of his old name, a strange feeling erupting in his chest. The panic he was feeling at the knowledge that Peter could be dead or dying at this very moment only added to his anger as he threw the knife back at her. She dodged gracefully to the side before standing up straight, a ball of flames dancing in the palm of her hand. Her dark brown hair was hanging loose around her face, her cheeks lined with soot and blood from the explosion.

"We've been looking for you for years," she said, picking up the knife from where it had fallen with her free hand. She wiped the blood casually on her pants leg before sliding it into her belt buckle. "You're a hard man to find."

Gabriel shook his head, his impatience growing.

"Why would you be looking for me?" he demanded. She shook her head, a smirk on her lips as she transferred the ball of flames from one hand to the other, the light reflecting in her dark green eyes.

"Why wouldn't we?" she asked. "The great Sylar, Boogeyman of New York City. You're feared. Or at least you were. And you can be again." She smiled at the look on his face, shaking her head. "You're on the wrong side here, Sylar. You can't tell me you don't miss the power you had before. The fear you inspired. The respect. You can have that all again."

Gabriel felt a stirring deep in his chest, a feeling he didn't take the time to examine.

"I don't have time for this," he said. He reached out a hand, sending her back down the hallway. She curled herself into a ball, sheltering her back from the hit against the wall at the end of the hallway as he turned back to the hallway where Peter had disappeared.

Whoever that woman was, she had taken too much of his time. Gabriel burst into the room he'd seen Peter dragged into, pausing in the doorway when a voice emerged from the shadows at the end of the room.

"I was wondering when you'd show up, Sylar."

Gabriel paused in the doorway, glancing down at his hands. He recognized his own, the dark hair brushing the edges of his knuckles, the fingers that had wreaked so much havoc over the years. He wasn't sure when he'd changed back, though he supposed it didn't matter now. He looked back up, his eyes taking in the scene around him quickly and methodically.

Peter, dead, his head on the floor and his body in a chair.

Claire, dead, face down on the floor with blood blooming from the back of her blonde head like an inverted halo. And she wasn't coming back.

His eyes shifted slowly back to the man standing in front of him, the rage covering him like a comfortable cloak, something he'd neglected to wear for years but still fit just right. He lifted a hand, sending the well-dressed man into the wall hard. His finger twitched in recognition of the movement as the man laughed, his eyes lighting up in something like delight.

"How does it feel to know that people still fear you after 20 years?" he asked, seemingly unconcerned that his feet hung two feet above the ground. Gabriel took a step closer, never taking his eyes from the man's. He was sure he'd never seen this man before, despite the ease with which he spoke to him.

The man couldn't have been more than 50 years old, though he wore his age well. His suit, which was now ripped in several places and spotted with blood, was well-made and form-fitting. He had muscles, though not anything overtly impressive or startling. Gabriel tightened his hold on the man's neck, feeling a small itch of satisfaction as he coughed, trying to loosen the collar of his suit with the hand that was not hanging limply by his side.

"You should fear me," Gabriel muttered. He squeezed his hand tighter, smirking slightly as the man's face began to turn red. "I'll rip you apart and put you back together, just to do it again. Have you ever seen your own entrails?"

"I knew you were still in there," the man gasped, struggling to breathe. "All this talk of redemption, but you and I both know the truth: you can't change."

"You won't be around to find out," Gabriel growled, lifting his finger. The movement came naturally. It felt like coming home.

He had barely cut into the man's forehead when he felt a burst of heat at his back. He stumbled forward, losing his telekinetic hold as the man tumbled to the ground. Gabriel spun around, sending the nearby desk flying towards the woman who had just sent a fireball at his back.

She barely dodged out of the way. Gabriel felt the rage building from deep within himself, and sent fire back at her, watching as the desk lit on fire and she grabbed the man's arm, dragging him towards the window.

"I don't think so," Gabriel growled, stopping the man in his tracks. He would see his head on the ground next to Peter's before this was over. The man stopped in his tracks, even as the woman tried to pull him away. Gabriel squeezed him tighter, watching again as his face began to turn red, blue, purple, ignoring the fire hurled his way, the skin that burned and healed again almost immediately.

"About damn time!" the woman shouted, and Gabriel barely had time to react before a sharp pain bloomed across the back of his head and he lost his hold on the man. He turned around to face another figure, dressed similarly to the woman. He quickly turned his focus on this new foe, but it only took moments for the new figure to dodge around him, disappearing out the window with the other two; and suddenly, they were gone.

Gabriel cursed, feeling the anger spread over his skin like the fire that still burned on parts of his shirt. He ran to the window, but barely caught sight of them disappearing around the corner. He had one foot on the windowsill to pursue them when he caught sight of Claire's prone body from the corner of his eyes, still where she'd been when he entered the room.

"Fuck!" he shouted, kicking the wall hard, feeling the bones in his foot shatter and realign. He turned around and knelt next to her body, knowing the reason for her injury even before he saw it: the back of her head. He could see the bullet hole, angry and open and bloody, the skin tattered and torn in its wake.

His hands shook from adrenaline as his eyes moved from her body to Peter's, still sitting in the chair. Gabriel's eyes briefly met Peter's, unseeing and vacant, before he lifted Claire's body in his arms and stepped out the window.

"You're hovering."

Gabriel sat back in his chair, frowning slightly.

"I'm not hovering," he protested. He watched as Claire sighed, setting aside the book she'd been pretending to read. He'd been watching her for thirty minutes as her eyes went over the same sentence again and again, all while he pretended to read his own book.

"I'm not going to run out of the door as soon as you take your eyes off of me," she said, and Gabriel felt a small twinge of annoyance as he set his own book down.

"You're not a prisoner, Claire," he said. She laughed, shaking her head as she tossed the book much less carefully onto the table beside her. He frowned as it bounced off the glass table and landed on the floor, spine up.

"Then stop acting like a warden!" He watched as she stood up, the blanket falling from her knees and onto the floor by her feet. "It's been two weeks, and you won't even let me go for a walk."

Gabriel stood up, mirroring her movements.

"It's not safe," he said slowly, repeating himself for what felt like the twentieth time in the past few days. "Or need I remind you that I had to dig a bullet out of the back of your head?"

"You have. Reminded me, that is. At least seven times." She spat the words at him with enough venom to kill a snake. He laughed, feeling the annoyance creep back into his body. God, he had forgotten how annoying she could be.

"And what are you going to do, if you 'go for a walk?'" he demanded, his fingers forming quotations around the words. "You're looking for trouble. Those people are still out there, doing God knows what, and most likely looking for you–for us." He paused, remembering the words that the woman had said to him: We've been looking for you for years.

"It seems pretty obvious to me what they were after," Claire protested, glaring up at him. Despite her small frame, she knew how to intimidate, or at least how to try; had it been anyone else, she might have succeeded. She stood up straight, the fire flashing in her green eyes as her voice rose slowly in volume. "And they got it. Peter's dead, and his campaign is over. God knows neither of us is running for public office anytime soon, so what does it matter if we leave?"

He shook his head, bending down to pick up the book that she had thrown so carelessly on the floor.

"It's safer if we stay together," he said, knowing even as she spoke that she heard the words underlining them: You're safer if we stay together.

Try as he might, he couldn't get the image of Claire's body out of his head. It had taken nearly half an hour to dig the bullet out of her brain, and another hour after that before she came back to life. He'd spent that time pacing on the floor, feeling the anger and rage building tighter and tighter in his body until he was ready to burst. He imagined the different ways he would torture that man, rip his body into pieces just enough that he held on to see his own blood spill on the floor. It was different from Peter, somehow. He could grieve for the only friend he'd ever had, though he was pushing that back as well. The time for grief would come later, once he'd found the people responsible. But it wasn't grief he felt when he looked at Claire's body, motionless on his couch. It was something else entirely, something he wasn't comfortable dissecting or picking apart, something he didn't want to understand.

"I'm not a child, Gabriel," she said, looking up at him, folding her arms across her chest, looking every bit the petulant child he remembered from years before. "I can take care of myself."

He spoke before he could stop himself.

"You couldn't!" he shouted, watching as she flinched slightly from his voice. "You were dead when I got there, Claire. Dead, like a normal person. You still would be if–"

"If you hadn't dug the bullet out of the back of my head, yes. Thank you for reminding me again."

She turned away, stepping towards the entryway that led to the front door. He was on her before she could get far, grabbing her arm to stop her.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, feeling his grip tighten slightly even as his mind reminded him to stop, to breathe.

"To the bathroom, if that's alright with you," she snapped, yanking her arm out of his grip. He let go, watching with thinly concealed rage as she walked down the hallway, slamming the bathroom door shut behind her with a resounding 'thud.'

Gabriel swore, throwing the book back onto the couch before falling back into the armchair he hadn't vacated for hours. They'd been like this ever since he'd brought her back. Neither of them would talk about Peter, beyond the initial words spoken after she'd woken. He'd kept his distance from that topic, unsure if he wanted to open the wound yet. All he could think of now was how much better Peter would handle this situation than him. It was clear to him that Claire wasn't handling this well, not that he was doing much better; still, Peter was the emotionally mature one, the one who could guide his niece through grief. But he couldn't do it when it was his grief that was sending her spiraling.

Gabriel sighed, holding his head in his hands. All he'd been able to think about was that woman's words, that they'd been looking for him. He couldn't help but feel responsibility for what had happened; guilt was becoming a familiar feeling to him now. Guilt and anger.

And fear.

He saw Claire's body when he closed his eyes, lying on the ground with blood behind her head. The one person guaranteed to be there when time passed, when others aged and they didn't; turns out even that wasn't guaranteed.

Gabriel knew that Peter would want him to protect her, and so he would. Even if she hated him for it; even if she balked at his control, she wouldn't die again. Not while he was around to stop it.

At least he could promise that.