You are the brick/
I am so unpredictable/
Led by the current away/
Your solid stage is so necessary to save/
All those who stray/

Jonathan felt Candice's hand tighten on his upper arm, tensing in like a blood-pressure bandage. He turned to scold her for hurting him, but when he saw the expression of flat shock on her face, he stopped his smart remark and immediately began looking for the problem.

"Jonathan," she said, almost whispering. "It's Sylar."

He felt his pulse kick up a few notches at the name, and he caught sight of their erstwhile captive just as he collided with them, stumbling against the bar. Powerful murderer or not, there was something wrong with this man. He looked like he was sick, or was having a seizure, only half in control of his body. They watched him for a moment, transfixed at the sight of him bent in on himself, gripping the bar like it was a cliff edge he was just barely hanging onto. Then he straightened, snapping up to his full height with a look that told Jonathan they should have run when they could.

He swept the bar of its drinks, sending the jewel-tone alcohol splattering over Jonathan's feet, and he jumped back with enough startled motion to catch Sylar's eye. He felt the man's gaze scrape over them like sandpaper, and the brief flick of recognition that passed over his face looked like death threat and looked like warning. He felt Candice's hand suddenly release his arm, and when he turned around, she was gone—turned resourcefully invisible, blended with the anonymous crowd.

He swore under his breath and turned back to face Sylar as the man advanced on him with the slow dramatic steps of a B-movie slasher killer. People were scattering around him, fleeing right and left from the sixth-sense surety that someone was going to die here. He called electricity into his hands, regardless of the few people who were still around, reasoning that they wouldn't notice him lighting up like a Christmas tree against their desperation to get away. He felt the lick of sparks against his palms, saw Sylar's eyes go predator-black, and did the first thing he could think of—he thrust his hand into the pool of spilled alcohol on the bar, watching as it ate hungrily across the space to Sylar, hoping no one else was standing in the liquid as he watched Sylar twitch and jerk, hundreds of volts tearing through his body.

And they said I didn't pay attention in science class. He watched as Sylar's shoes began to smoke and melt, surprised at his success, amazed that it was that easy—but of course, it wasn't.

He saw Sylar's hands come up with teeth-gritted sheer force of will, and only had time to think what bad trouble he was in before he felt something push into him with enough force to throw him back into the tables. When his vision swam back into focus, Sylar was standing over him (how was he still walking? This man was indestructible!) grabbing him by the collar and dragging him up.

Shaking the last of the dizziness from his head, he grabbed Sylar's arms, hanging on with fierce determination as angry sparks shot into the man's skin. Sylar yelled in pain and shoved him away, third-degree electrical burns braceleting his wrists. Jonathan scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the door, but only made it half a dozen steps before slamming to a paralyzed, telekinetically-frozen halt.

He screamed in frustration, willing himself to movie, but Sylar's invisible grip crushed in on him like iron bands. His arms snapped behind his back and he saw the plastic siding start to tear from the wall in strips, flying over in frightening animation to bind his hands. Sylar, always a quick learner, had deduced that the electrical currents were controlled by his hands, and had effectively blocked them with non-conductive plastic—apparently, Jonathan wasn't the only one who had read his science book.

He strode forward and grabbed Jonathan by the throat, slamming him flat on the tabletop, wincing only slightly as his blistered skin screamed protest. Jonathan's vision tunneled in to nothing but Sylar, his toxic obsession and sharp-lined face. Then suddenly, something seemed to break through those lines, rippling and skewing them. He felt the pressure release on his neck, but the hand didn't move away, and he stayed perfectly still as he watched Sylar's expression rip violently through a dozen extremes.

"Stop that!" he snarled, and Jonathan wondered hysterically who he was talking to. "Get back, this needs to happen!"

"No," he spoke again in a different tone, sounding as if the words came through molasses, forced and sticky. "I won't let you."

"You're so weak," he said, jerking his head to the side, and Jonathan began to get a sense of two different personalities, a violent split schizophrenia in conflict. "You're nothing but a parasite, an unfortunate bloodsucking distraction. I am a necessary—extension—of—the—species."

"You're a murderer," said the second voice. "I won't let you get more blood on our hands, they're my hands too."

"You're nobody, and I am important," the first voice snapped. "Do you want to disappear? Do you want to be a nobody, watchmaker?" But the voice was weakening, restrained and pushed under, and the fingers were slowly unwrapping from Jonathan's throat. Finally, the tension went out of his hand and he let Jonathan up, stumbling away to collapse on the nearest chair.

Jonathan got warily to his feet, and when the man looked at him, it was a different face, with cleaner lines and more light behind his eyes. "Sorry about that," he said.

---

"So let me get this straight," Angela said calmly. "You knocked my son out, tied him up, and locked him in his bedroom?"

"I'm your son too, Ma, in case you've forgotten," Nathan said irritably. "And yes, yes I did. You know it's for his own good, he's such an idiot about this saving the world thing."

The rest of the people in the library—Mr. Bennet, Claude, and Angela—shook their heads at him in near-perfect unison, agreeing with him even as they wanted to disapprove. "How long do you think you're going to be able to hold him?" Claude asked practically. "He's a good deal more powerful than even he knows, and he's going to be pissed when he wakes up."

"I don't know," Nathan said wearily, wondering why it was that the person with the greatest amount of power was coincidentally the person with the least common sense—someone clearly hadn't thought that one through. "I'm hoping that I can get someone to talk sense into him before he blows up the house or something. Mom, how about it?"

"What makes you think he's in the wrong, here?" Angela said icily. "Apparently, the President is in danger. Are we honestly going to let him be assassinated without batting an eye?"

"We have two separate problems," Mr. Bennet said analytically. "The President is only one of them. Clearly, we do need to take action to prevent a potential national disaster, but at this moment I'm rather more concerned about Peter rendering New York City a smoking crater."

"Wrong," Claude said, taking Angela's hand for support. "We haven't got two problems, we've got three. Remember our little Benedict Arnold incident? Somewhere in this city there's a maladjusted, angry adolescent running around with an exact knowledge of who and where we are. How long do you think it will be before we've got Mr. Linderman knocking on our door?"

"I hate to up the tally here," Nathan said, "but we might want to think about a fourth problem as well. The police are very actively looking for Peter, and they're going to come looking here. The only reason they haven't shown up yet is because they think I'm still gone, but I'm betting they'll be here with their badges and flashlights in a matter of days. How am I supposed to hide him from them, and what am I supposed to say when they ask where he is?" He stopped short, staring at his mother, who had taken out a notebook and was writing into it. "Mom, what are you doing?"

"Taking notes," she said calmly. Seeing their stunned looks, she said, "What, do you want to wake up two weeks from now and think, oh, we forgot to save the President, I guess he's dead? The only way we'll keep all this straight is if someone writes it down." They continued staring at her, bewildered by the normality of pen and paper in the midst of their world crises. She huffed to herself, said something that sounded like "Men!" and kept writing.

"Can't you deal with the President thing?" Claude asked Nathan. "I mean, you're meant to be the one with all the political connections, aren't you? Not that I care, personally—he's not my President."

Mr. Bennet chose to ignore the last, and said reasonably, "It's true that we should probably split this up somehow—it's all simply too much crisis for any one of us. Nathan, I agree that you should warn the President—you don't have to tell him the whole story, just warn him that he's being targeted and give him as many specifics as you can. Angela, could you try to get your son to see our point of view? We can't have him out of this house, it's irresponsible. Katie will need to be under house arrest as well, though I daresay she'll be less trouble—she's got a slightly tighter grip on reality.

I'll get in touch with Hana, and see if we can find our runaway backstabber before he does too much damage. Claude, I need you to help with the police—there's a great deal of evidence that Peter's in the house, and I remember you being able to make things invisible at a certain proximity. Move all evidence to Peter's room, and when the police do show up I'd like you to get to that room and mask Peter's presence completely. Also, if Angela is successful in talking Peter down to earth, it's vitally important that you continue your training with him."

They all looked at him with cold understanding—except for Angela, who was busy jotting his orders down in her notebook. He felt a small tinge of satisfaction at their capability and comprehension, remembering days and years surrounded by inflexible idiots.

It was so nice working with professionals.

---

Katie and Claire sat silently side-by-side on the stairs, watching the heavy oak door, trying to squash the urge to peer through the keyhole or listen with a glass against the wood. "And we're at the kid's table again," Katie said quietly, glaring from under her bangs.

"What?" Claire asked absently.

"Nothing," Katie told her. "It's just something Peter said once."

"So what are we going to do?" Claire asked matter-of-factly.

"Do?" Katie asked, surprised enough to tear her gaze away from the door. "I think it's been make pretty clear that we're not going to do anything. That's what the talking heads in there are for."

"We could let him free."

"Bad idea, believe me."

"Why is it a bad idea? He just wants to save the world."

"I know, and that's really cute of him and all, but unfortunately there's a good chance he'll blow it up in the process. It's just not a smart thing to do right now."

"So what? If Peter had always done the smart thing, if he always listened to his brother, I would be dead right now. I trust his instincts. Out of all of us, I think that he was just…meant for this somehow."

"Like fate, you mean?" Katie asked thoughtfully.

"Yeah," Claire agreed. "Like fate."

"Well," Katie said slowly. "If this is all fate, I suppose we couldn't be blamed if we were fated to let him go. It's our destiny, right?"

"Absolutely," Claire said solemnly. "We wouldn't want to cause a…er, a rift in the…fate continuum."

"Okay," Katie relented. "Let's go find Peter."