I am your thought/
But the water is amnesia/
My name is on
the tip of your tongue/
My image is slipping/
"She said what?"
"That's exactly what she said," Nathan said defensively. "She said she's switched sides and she wants to help us."
"I'm sorry," Niki said, feeling a massive migraine sneaking up her temples. "I just don't understand why she would ever say that, unless she's lying or it's some kind of a trick."
"Pretty lame trick," Nathan commented. "I think we all learned not to trust 'I'm on your team now' back in third-grade snowball fights."
"I wouldn't put it past her to double-cross Linderman, but she'd have to at least have a reason, wouldn't she?"
"One would think so," Nathan agreed. "But look, before we go nitpicking at her motives, could you please explain to me what is going on here? I mean, one minute I'm talking to a raging female Rambo, and the next minute you're back, and to be honest I'm thinking about calling the nearest psych ward."
"Tried that already," Niki said with a painful smile. "It didn't take. I know you're confused, Nathan, but it's really hard to explain."
He reached out and took her hand, comforting, pressuring. "Try," he commanded.
Niki felt a little skitter of purely physical thrill run up her arm from where he touched, the pleasant lust that this sharp, devastating man always seemed to invoke in her. Truth be told, she was glad that someone was taking control of her again. She had never been much of anything when she was by herself; just a shell waiting to be filled by someone stronger. That was probably why she was so vulnerable to Jessica, why every minute was now fight just to keep control of her own body, to be the one who chose if she moved or breathed or lied or killed. "There's this…other person inside of me," she explained unhappily. "I can't control her, she's really strong and she doesn't care about hurting people. I don't know where she came from or why she's there, but she's in me and I can't get her out." She saw Nathan's carefully expressionless face, plastered over with polite pretending, and something flared up inside of her, angry and Jessica-strong. She pulled her hand out of his grip, pushing away from him. "I'm not crazy," she snapped.
"Maybe not," he said diplomatically. "We're going to have to table the question for now, because we have more important things to deal with. For example: is Jessica sincere, and what does she want?"
Niki shook her head, exhausted, feeling hopeless. "I don't know," she said. "I'm not going to lie, she could be a real help to you—she can do some incredible things. I just don't think that you can trust her, not ever, and I don't know when I'll be able to get control again. She's locked me out for days before, weeks at a time—I'm not sure I'm going to do much good in this."
Nathan sat back, rubbing his fist against his jaw, trying to decide whether or not to let loose the brutal bluntness that was building up against the back of his throat. This woman either needed a slap in the face or a padded cell, and he could only give her one of them—if he was wrong, though, he could seriously damage her usefulness. But there was nothing for it. "You know what I think, Niki?" he said sharply, and her head came up like he had slapped her, surprised at his tone. "I think that you're being weak, lazy, and whiny, and that's not who you are. It sounds to me like this Jessica, whoever she is, at least knows what she wants and has the guts to go get it, unlike you. Why are you just letting you push you around like this? Lose the victimization, lose the weepy self-pity, and kick this bitch the hell out of your body!"
Niki stared at him, speechless, blankly dumbfounded, and for a moment he though Oh great. Good job, Nathan, you've blown her brain out the back of her head. Very well done. Then, just as she was about to scream at him or burst into tears or kiss him, the moment was indecorously ended by Peter and Katie's entrance into the room. At first, they didn't see Nathan and Niki, caught up in some sort of ridiculous discussion about breathing, but just as Nathan though they might not notice them at all, they turned. And stared. And yelled at the top of their lungs, horrified to see the woman who had so recently been terrorizing them, shooting them up and holding them hostage.
"It's okay!" Nathan said hurriedly, jumping out of his seat. "Hey, it's okay, shut up!"
Peter had pushed Katie behind him in that automatic, kill-me-first protective way he had, glaring suspiciously at Nathan as if he thought he might be the devil or Candice. "How is it okay?" he asked furiously. "Please, Nathan, enlighten me as to how it's okay."
"This isn't the woman who's been after us," Nathan explained. "Well—it is the woman who's been after us, technically, but she's okay right now. She's not going to hurt us."
Katie dropped a glance on him, looking entirely unconvinced. "That doesn't make any sense," she told him tautly, "and if it doesn't start making sense in thirty seconds or less, I'm going to run back in that room and lock the door."
Nathan glanced back at Niki for help (he realized belatedly that he was doing the same thing as Peter, shielding Niki away from them with his body—when had he become such a hero?) , but she still looked mildly shellshocked, obviously not planning to be any help despite his rousing pep talk. "Just think of it as kind of an evil twin thing, okay?" Nathan said exasperatedly. "Like schizophrenia or something, two personalities in one body. The point is, this is the good twin."
"Right," Peter said vaguely, still not moving, searching Niki's face for signs of sudden hostility—and finding them. Nathan heard her moving behind him and turned in time to see her put a hand on her head, looking as if she were about to be sick. Suddenly, she was Jessica, all concave harshness and danger—then she was Niki again, and Jessica, with a flickering abruptness that was disturbing to watch.
"I—" she said, then cut off, tried again. "I have to leave." A beat, a short pitched struggle. "It's Jessica—I'll come back if I can." She walked swiftly to the door and slid out of the room, leaving questions and fear behind her.
Peter stared after her, nonplussed. "Strange girl," he said.
---
Sylar pulled his collar up against the rain, ducking his head so the sludgy downpour wouldn't get in his face. Weather, he decided miserably. I need to find someone who can control the weather. The sky hadn't been quite able to pick if it wanted to rain or snow, and had eventually settled on a half-solid sleet that hit like a bullet but was still liquid enough to slide down his shirt and chill him through.
He wished he could go into the hotel. He was positive he'd finally located the so-elusive Petrellis, and the hatred and hunger to get at them was nearly more than he could control, but he hadn't lost the last of his senses yet. He was now, unfortunately, a well-known face, broadcast regularly across network screens like he was some kind of common criminal, some dangerous madman. It was ridiculous; it was amazing. They didn't understand at all. He'd always wanted to have his name up in the metaphorical lights, and it was a thrill to see it crawl across the televisions, but it was a thrill that he couldn't appreciate in balance with its inconvenience.
For example, it was hindering him now in that he simply couldn't stroll into the lobby of the Marriot, dripping all over their bargain carpets and pretending to be an ambiguous, innocent guest. It was a shame, really, because he was very good at fooling people, and he loved to see the looks on their faces when they realized just who he was. Which they always did, he could never hold it for long—he needed them to know, needed that moment of realization. It fed him like a shot of electricity, lit him up like a match.
He'd just begun to formulate the skeleton of a plan, when the woman walked out of the hotel. She was beautiful, and Sylar was instantly attracted to her, but not because of her beauty. She pinged against his mind like a warning radar blip, every nerve screaming that she was one of them—prey. He was after her before he could think, dropping in behind her shoulder with a quick, predatory stride.
She noticed. She seemed to feel him behind her at once and snapped around to face him, wet blond hair cutting across her face and with such a vicious, confident expression that he actually took a step back. Well. Perhaps not prey after all. But even predators could be taken down, and Sylar was not afraid of this woman.
He moved before she could, grabbing her by the neck and slamming her back into the hotel doors. They glass spiderwebbed under the blow, screaming about-to-break behind her, but she was not so fragile—she pulled his arm away with seemingly little effort, getting her foot up between them and shoving him away, hard, her heel gouging into his chest as he fell away, surprised at her force. Super-strength, is that it? That could be useful. And there it was—the uncontrollable avarice, the power-lust that flooded his senses and made her into a thing, an object to be consumed and discarded. Not a person; nothing more than an obstacle.
Certainly not an easy one, though—before he had a chance to recover, she got in a neat roundhouse kick, delivered from her swimsuit-model legs with the power of a pile driver behind it. He fell to the wet pavement, and she kicked him, square in the head. He nearly went unconscious, and he spat blood onto the sidewalk, black and red blurring together in his vision.
That was it. Time to stop messing around with this woman. He was not some random attacker, not some street fighter brawling in the mud. He was Sylar—he was a god—and she would know it.
He threw his hands up just as she aimed another kick at him, slamming her foot to a halt inches away from his face. He watched her dawning dismay as he slowly turned the tables, forcing her back, away from him—then he let loose, tossing her back into the wall like she was a rag doll, like she was nothing.
As he closed in for the kill, a concierge ran out of the hotel, drawn by the noise. Sylar didn't even look at the man, only flicked a finger at him, an invisible knife that slashed across the man's throat and sent him tumbling soundlessly into the rain-swollen gutter. He saw the woman's eyes widen at his kill, and felt her fear like burning sunrays, her acknowledgement and homage to his power. He let himself bask in it for only a moment—he was not stupid, only obsessed—and then he went to work.
He watched her blood pour down her face and mix with the rain. He took her life and even regretted it, for a moment. Only for now, he thought. Only for now, the blood and the screaming. Peter Petrelli, you're next.
---
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you so much for sticking with me through all this infuriating mess—still don't know quite what's up with my chapters disappearing and reappearing all over the place, but what can you do? Anyway, if you ever can't get into a chapter, shoot me a message and I'll send it to you. Or, you can go to heroesfiction. because all the chapters will be posted there. Thanks again! You guys are awesome!