A/N: OMG YAY IT'S FINALLY HERE!!! THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE DANG STORY!!! Omg I'm so excited! Some of you I've talked out there might've heard me mention the Liontamer chapters before. Believe it or not, other than kissing and sexahtimez, the whole story so far has been building up to THIS VERY MOMENT! /em takes breath and enjoys standing on the precipice. Seriously, when I started planning this story back in JULY I asked myself, "what could possibly drive Sylar into prison and rehab??? A pretty girl? Maybe, but I'd like him to do it for himself. Creepy shadow people? SURE, there we go!!!" I have been waiting *fifteen* chapters to introduce this character and now she's here. I truly hope you guys enjoy her as much as I am. If not, that's okay too, you can't win 'em all, but she's captured a huge piece of my heart from the very moment she became a figment of my imagination. Or... maybe a bit longer than THAT as she's actually modeled after my truly awesome mother-in-law. This one's fer you Peg! Okay, enough gushin', on with the show!!!

I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D

3) The Liontamer – Part One

There was a restroom not many used, due to its location. It was on the far end of the station on the lowest possible deck, adjoining the constantly thrumming filtration system actively responsible for recycling used air and water. The rancid atmosphere there held a deplorably pungent odor on top of being oppressively humid – it was worth the flight of stairs to use a happier facility. Naturally, it was there where Claire would find the greatest possible probability for seclusion and privacy. She pulled her faster-than-light relay device from her pocket (abbreviated to FTLRD, commonly referred to as "fetlard", affectionately shortened to just "fet" no matter how badly she just wanted to call it a damned "phone") and dialed the number she'd hoped she'd never really need to use, at least not until she was ready for a new life.

She'd enlisted Duncan Oglesby's number with the network on which the fet operated as belonging to her "uncle", knowing she'd left her real uncle behind centuries ago. Because Duncan was a rebel agent, she'd used the familial term in order to deflect any suspicion… she only hoped he didn't have half a million other "nieces" and "nephews" out there on the network.

She'd met Duncan during her last transitions between lives. They'd both been pulling favors for the mob – she in exchange for a convincing murder and a new identity, he for the use of a laundered vehicle to be used for transporting camp refugees to secure locations. They'd become good friends and he'd assured her the next time she changed her life his rebel agents would prove more accommodating and less… pricey.

Before he picked up, she mentally recited the code she was about to use – one on which she'd been drilled with a few of his other agents before she'd left to rejoin the world. His voice rang clear in her ear, replete with a slightly rural New England accent, painting the picture in her mind of his familiar face shrouded by thinning, dusty blonde hair. Even from space his quick blue eyes pierced her and held her attention. She trusted him like no other. He reminded her of her dad.

"Hello?"

"Uncle? Hey, it's me, your niece - Rosie. I got your package – so thoughtful! It's expensive shipping stuff to the space stations!" Hey, Rose Bennett – maybe you remember me, I'm the one who went off to work on the space station?

"Oh yeah! You're mom helped me pick it out." Yes, I remember who you are – remember you well.

"Yeah, really made my day. Thing's have been crazy here – literally just nuts." Dude, I've got a serious problem… "But the bear, he's just got the sweetest face!" I've got a mod here, a male – he needs an I.D.

"Well, yer mom's got something for ya too, you should see it show up in a couple days." I'll get something up to you on the next transport.

"I'll look forward to it – hope I don't get shipped out to a colony in the meantime." No good – we're under heavy suspicion – we need a courier.

"Yeah. Well, love you, honey, you take care and call us next week, let us know you're fine." Understood and acknowledged.

Claire gave some sort of equally familial closure and disconnected the call. She took a backwards, convoluted path to the commons where she procured a container of soup before winding her way to a supply closet for linens and uniforms. Arms full with food and clothing for her naked visitor, she returned to her domicile. It felt so weird to have company…

~*~*~

The last time she'd watched him sleep he'd been drugged, collared, and handcuffed. Underneath the boyishness of relaxed, peaceful features and youthful, fanning eyelashes there'd still been the hint of a scarcely contained killer, out cold and drooling. The scene before her was quite different. Initially there was the misfortune, she'd been startled to realize as she unloaded her cargo on the kitchenette countertop, that the blanket he'd twisted himself up in with reckless abandon was pink. Baby powder pink. She probably could've turned on more lights when she'd hunted for the thing… but hindsight was just that. She suspected he either didn't know or didn't care. He'd pulled it up over his ears and his nose so that only his brow and the tips of his thick, dark aviator cut were visible sticking up above the hem. And he was mumbling. Something about a screwdriver. She wondered if he was ordering a drink…

She snaked her fingertips under the blanket to slide them into the crook between his neck and shoulder – he was blazing hot. While this would worry most, it set her mind at ease. It told her his immune system was working overtime to rid his body of the infection caused by prematurely decaying tissue. His regenerative ability was working well. The chill of her fingers was a small shock against the silky warm skin, however, and he jerked awake shooting his dark pools up at her. He blinked a bit then glanced around, momentarily disoriented, before sinking back into the pillow and stretching his long frame to its fullest length.

"Claire…" he groaned with his arms pulled luxuriously high over his head, popping his left shoulder, "I fell asleep on your couch…"

"I know. I put you there – you needed it. I come bearing gifts."

She handed him the pile of clothing that consisted of what resembled hospital scrubs.

"Not much, but it's something. You remember where the bathroom is. I've got a spare toothbrush under the sink, and you're welcome to the shower."

Wrapping the blanket around him like a cloak, still disregarding its hue, he stood and accepted her offering. Halfway across the room, he turned back to face her, towering above her, starting to say something but unable to finish.

"Claire… why are…"

Trying to decipher what he was asking, she took in his face. Looking at him was like entering a room she'd lived in for a hundred years or more only to discover that something had been either moved or missing, but she didn't know what it was. Something was just mysteriously different. Something was gone. Before she knew it she'd squinted and knitted her eyebrows, studying him, and he shrunk a little from her scrutiny. Ducking his gaze, he nodded and turned to leave. A slave to a sometimes impulsive mouth, she vocalized her thoughts before she could filter them.

"You're not Sylar, are you."

He stopped mid-step but didn't turn around.

"What happened to you?" she continued, remembering the last time she'd asked him that question ages ago.

"Gimme a few minutes, it's sort of a long story."

"Of course."

Later, while they sat sipping soup, watching the steam from the shower still billow across the ceiling in the living area, she listened intently while Gabriel spoke.

~*~*~

*** two hundred and eighty years ago – Leavenworth Federal Prison ***

Trust

She had arrived, and was ready to be escorted to her subject. The security officer left his post and entered the elevator, pushing the button for the ground floor located upstairs. He'd ignored his prisoner's fresh round of taunts as he'd passed by his cell. He was fully aware what the man was capable of and knew that, despite his mouthy bluster, if he'd truly wanted to grant him the grisly demise he'd described in creative, disturbing detail each and every time he walked by, he'd've carried out the plot by now. If he really wanted free of this place, there was nothing that was going to stop him. This knowledge gave him some solace, but didn't entirely manage to suppress the residual shudder he experienced after the elevator door closed and concealed him from view.

Maggie was not what he'd expected. He had pictured someone taller, not quite as middle-aged, and a lot more cerebral and severe since he didn't exactly peg Sylar for the "mother hen" type. Oh. And he certainly did NOT envision her to be a nun: black gown, white habit, rosy-cheeked and smiling cherubic face, long wooden rosary, the whole shebang.

Sister Mary Magdalene stood by the locked entryway exuding limitless patience and unconditional affection. She bore a small plate whose contents were confined within a layer of gleaming tinfoil. She was short and round and always privately chuckling to herself about some aspect of human nature she found peculiar. She had an amazing sense of humor. And while Sylar was the first super-powered psychopath she'd ever treated, he wasn't her first psychopath. Not by far. Her reputation had preceded her, even down to the page that had brought him up from the basement to retrieve her.

"Bob, yer Liontamer's here," he'd been told. The Liontamer, in the flesh before him, shaman to the criminally insane, ready to perform her magic. Bob was skeptical about this one.

"Ma'am, I can't let you bring that in here," he informed her, referring to the plate she held.

"Please, call me Maggie," she answered, "and, while I don't wish to impede upon your ability to do your job in the same way you obviously feel comfortable impeding upon mine, may I ask why?"

Liontamer? More like a lion.

"Could be anything under there, ma'am. If I'm gonna let you, I gotta let everyone. You can leave it here with Maxwell."

"Oh, for heavens -" she exclaimed as she tossed back one sleeve with great flourish. She peeled back the tinfoil to reveal a plate of chocolate chip cookies. "Here, both of you, take one and open this door." Her expression was sweetly adamant. He understood why she was so good at what she did – she did not back down and she did not give up. He took a cookie like a good boy – it was soft, moist, and better than his mother's – then he opened the door and led her inside to the elevator. Once the proper floor was selected, he posed the query.

"If you don't mind me asking, ma'am -"

"Maggie."

"- Maggie, do you bring cookies to all of your new patients?"

"It's a litmus test, designed to measure trust. A man who has completely lost his ability to trust humankind will not accept anything, not even a cookie, from a stranger – even if that stranger is a nun. I suspect he will be paranoid and refuse me. It tells me where to start."

"Ah, I see. So. Uhhh… they call you a Liontam-"

"No. I hate that name. I do not tame. Taming implies breaking a person – these people are already broken. I'm here to fix what's broken." She turned to him and smiled disarmingly. "Really, I do prefer just Maggie."

"Well, Maggie, if you can fix this one, I'd be happy to call you Superwoman."

Sylar looked up at their approach with the undisguised curiosity a cat typically presents a mouse. Bob refused direct eye contact while Maggie conducted herself oppositely – undaunted, she squared her shoulders and beamed at the killer as if she'd known him since he was a boy. She was testing him, trying to see if he'd challenge her. Through body language alone she made it clear she was in charge of the situation – he backed warily away from her approach through the door of his cell, just as she'd suspected he would. He held no power over her – no one did but her Lord. She held out a warm, confident hand.

"Mr. Sylar, I presume? I am Sister Mary Magdalene. You may call me Maggie. Since I already suspect you know why I'm here, I'll feed you no dishonesty. Shall we begin my assessment?"

Honesty, with this one, was a good first move – well played. Still openly cautious, he nodded.

"Excellent. You may leave us Bob."

"Ma'am -"

"Maggie, and I assure you I'll be just fine, won't I Mr. Sylar?"

He merely glared from under dark brows, but he didn't scare her. Bob, on the other hand, left promptly.

"Oh, I nearly forgot. Cookie?"

She firmly held his gaze with hers, steadfast, while she extended her arm to place the plate between them. The air in the room grew very still and heavy with the stalemate. His chin made the smallest, most barely perceptible movement – leaning to the side to cock his head in thinly veiled distrust. For that brief moment he was a wild animal making the terrifying decision whether or not to accept food from the bare hand of a deadly human enemy. He covered his misgivings, however, by quickly snatching up one of the chocolate-speckled confections and delivering it a voracious bite, leaning back where he sat, one ankle crossing self-assuredly over the opposite knee. He'd accepted her dare and a point was scored in his favor, but Maggie remembered this was no ordinary individual – he had the added benefit of knowing nothing could physically do him harm, regardless of the package in which it arrived. Perhaps her test was poorly applied to this particular situation – she promised to do better next time. His initial hesitation was, however, noted.

"So, let's see. Where to begin. Alright, yes. Tell me, how well do you know Gabriel Gray? What can you tell me about him?"

Sylar huffed a laugh and rolled his head around to leisurely study a spot somewhere on the ceiling – interestingly, someplace he wasn't met with her penetrating eyes.

"He's a douchebag."

"I see. An odd way to describe an aggregate of your own self, if not somewhat telling. What makes him so, if you don't mind my asking?"

"He's weak and lovesick and too flimsy to live up to his full potential."

"You're referring to his ability? And you wish to help him?"

"Sister -"

"Maggie."

"Maggie… you have to know that the only reason I'm here is because it's a preferable alternative to becoming a lab rat, right? My decision regarding whether or not I wish to help him kinda stopped there."

She ignored his increasingly hostile tone. "And now you are here in Leavenworth and no longer in the facility in Terre Haute – because of the incident that occurred there."

He didn't confirm or deny, but also didn't take his eyes from her as she left the place where she stood to draw nearer to him, taking a seat on the cot across from the chair he occupied. She leaned closer, placing her elbows on her knees.

"So, you feel that staying here is in yours and Gabriel's best interests? You're not here because, maybe, Gabriel has asked you to pay for your crimes?"

Who did this woman think she was, trying to force him to admit to things he didn't want to? She was just like Claire…

"Yeah, you're right, talking about why I'm here is just so damned productive. Look, it sounds to me like you've already got your diagnosis, so maybe we could just -"

"Dissociative Identity Disorder. How often does Gabriel communicate with you?"

"Can we not talk about -"

"I'm just curious. Does it make you uncomfortable?" she smiled. "What does he say?"

"He doesn't say anything that matters. I'm done here. You can leave or stay, I don't care."

"It wasn't my intention to discomfort you, Mr. Sylar -"

"Maggie, what exactly is your intention?"

"Here today, or ultimately?"

He stared her down, her answer irrelevant at that moment, head spinning with the expectation that this woman was about to become a rather long-term fixture in his life. The prospect that, for the foreseeable future, he was to be questioned and examined on a regular basis was… irritating. The knowledge pressed around him from all sides, and the cell suddenly felt too small (as if it wasn't already). A wild desperation flared in his gut.

"It's just that, regardless of what's chasing you out there, I have a hard time believing that someone with your disposition and your talents would willingly rot in a jail cell, unless -"

He'd had enough, he couldn't stop himself. He picked her up and flung her against the bars of his cell, her skirts billowing in front of her, and he pinned her motionless – steel rods digging painfully into her head and shoulder blades. Bob was immediately on his feet with his firearm drawn, using a free hand to radio upstairs for help.

"Unless what?!? And what disposition?!? I don't know what you could be talking about!" he yelled sarcastically. Despite the unnerving benevolence she kept plastered to her face, Sylar could sense the quickening of her pulse and could hear her breath come and go more rapidly – no amount of mental discipline could fool biochemistry. And while her brain held no gift for him, he hungered for her blood, or perhaps it was her disappearance he craved so badly. Whatever it was, he could feel his mastery over it slipping away, or maybe he was just letting it go…

"Put her down or I'll shoot!!!" Bob cried, faithful to his job regardless of how aware he was that this perpetrator could rip him limb from limb. Bob was an admirable man, if not terribly bright.

"Bob, you know that gun's just gonna piss me off."

"I'm not here to dispute that – but I don't think you like it either. Put her down – I'm not gonna say it -"

"Bob, do what he says, put the gun down," Maggie stated plainly and calmly.

"I cannot let him have control of this situation, ma'am."

"Bob, you've never had control of this situation – control is just an illusion. Control is also not the issue here, it's trust, now put it down. You're not helping."

Bob held his ground and did not lower his weapon. Sylar could feel the thickening energy in the room racing along his spinal cord. He twitched his lip in a snarl as he applied a little more pressure against her chest. This time her façade broke a little – she winced as it became harder to draw another breath, feeling her bones grind against the cold metal at her back.

"You're hurting her, Bob."

Bob pulled back the hammer, loading a live round into the chamber.

"Pretty sure it's you."

"Gentlemen, please! I made my peace with God long ago – I no more fear my own demise than I fear gazing into the face of the greatest love I've ever known, now for the sake of everything holy Officer Harriman put that gun down!!! He will do with me what he will and I accept my fate if I'm to meet my Lord today, but nothing I've done here – nothing – will mean anything if he hasn't learned the value of trust. And we can't build that foundation if we're all acting like animals." She twisted her head around to look directly into the face of the officer. "I'm okay, Bob. Everything's fine. Nobody's hurt here. What I need from you is to go intercept your men and keep everything nice and calm. Can you do that? Please?"

Bob begrudgingly nodded his acquiescence before he backed slowly away toward the elevator. Maggie returned her attention to her assailant, whose expression was difficult to read. She mentally replayed everything she'd just said before deciding on the item that would cause such shadows to inadvertently shift across his face. Trust. Cookie be damned, this man had all the faith in humanity of a gravely endangered species. He was not only mistrustful of people, he was terrified of them – terrified of being hurt, instantly defensive, eager to flex his claws and bare his fangs.

"Mr. Sylar… those people found you in a jail cell once, what makes you think they won't do it again?" She waited for his answer, but when he gave none she continued. "I'm going to give you an unbiased opinion. I think – and I could be wrong and am fully willing to admit it – but I think you're still here because you don't know where else you belong – you were tired of the direction your life had taken, and you were desperate for a change and some much needed rest. I think you know that something's wrong but you don't know how to fix it and you can't do it by yourself. I think Gabriel's been talking to you."

"Fuck Gabriel." The words lacked a little of the bite that had probably been intended for them.

"He's a part of y-"

"Yeah? And what's he done that's so great then? What the hell do you want with him so badly?!?"

"He made you. And I don't just want him – I want both of you. I want to know you – all of you. What is so scary about that that it's made you this protective?"

Protective wasn't exactly how he'd envisioned himself, but she wasn't wrong…

"When was the last time you made a leap of faith, Sylar? I'm not here to manipulate you, I'm not here to pressure you – I'm here to help you get something you want. Something you both want."

"You don't know anything about -"

"No, not yet, I don't. You're right. I'm hoping that will change. I'm only asking for a chance. All I'm trying to do is see if I can't help give you some peace and happiness – contentment – cohesiveness – and ultimately, integration. I just want to try. There's no harm in that, is there?"

He was silent for a moment before he backed away a couple steps, lowering his head so that his hair fell in front of his eyes. His mouth, however, was drawn tight.

"You could fail."

"Hmmm…" Maggie answered, her voice surprisingly soothing for someone who was still strung up and helpless, "what I'm hearing is 'you could give up and leave me.'"

With quiet dignity, he angled his body away from her. She slowly slid down the bars until her feet touched the floor. He released her. She straightened her habit and took a couple breaths before picking up a couple more cookies. Unaffected, she presented one before his nose.

"Here. Have a cookie, you'll feel better."

"I'm not -"

"The cookies have chocolate and chocolate raises endorphin levels – it's a proven fact. Furthermore, it's not poisoned and they're soft and moist and good, so just eat the damned cookie."

She leaned into his plane of vision with determination, took a bite of her own cookie, and smiled a squinty-eyed, toothy, crumb-filled goofy smile. Her cookies were really super good… maybe one more wouldn't hurt. He accepted this one a bit more readily as she resumed her seat on his cot.

"Thank you for releasing me, you did not have to let me go."

He could barely swallow before he laughed.

"I had a choice…?"

"A choice? My dear, of course you did – there's not a human being alive who could deprive you the freedom to make your own decisions. Did I ask you to let me go? I'm pretty sure I didn't."

She didn't did she?

"I'm fairly positive," she continued, picking up another cookie, "you made that decision all on your own. I think you like me."

"You're crazy," he told her without a lot of conviction as sat back down in his chair, doing his part to help continue clearing the cookie plate of its payload.

"I'd like to think it takes one to know one."

"Yer hysterical."

"You like me for my cookies, don't you?"

It may have been the endorphin-inducing chocolate wreaking havoc on his brain, but he made another decision that seemed a bit too automatic – he allowed himself to smile.

~*~*~

...More Trust

*** a week later ***

She was here again, the appointed date and the appointed time. Bob walked off the elevator to a sight he never thought he'd see. There sat the nun wearing a bright red headband supporting two tall springs. Adorning the tops of the springs were two outlandish spaceships that twirled and bobbed with every slight movement of her head – even the simple act of breathing set them into perpetual motion. Very businesslike and with great difficulty, he stifled a giggle and made his approach. When she stood to greet him, he saw she carried, this time, a spiral notebook and a small package of four sharpened multicolored pencils. Damn… Cookies were one thing, but this was completely different.

"Maggie, I know I let you through here with the cookies, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna let you bring whatever you want. Rules are rules, we got 'em for a reason – isn't there something in the Bible about that?"

"Something in the Bible about not bringing pencils and paper to prisoners? No, I'm pretty sure that one's not in there, Bob."

"No look – there are good reasons why we have to enforce these things, Maggie, there's no tellin' what he could -"

"He could what – slit his wrists with a pencil? Gouge out his eyes? Disembowel himself??? Oh, I know!" She waved the notebook in the air in front of her, making a grand gesture of fluttering the pages. "He could completely shred himself with thousands of papercuts!"

"You know, I'm quite aware he can't hurt himself – forgive me for being a tad bit more worried about the rest of us." Unfortunately, he made a fabulous point.

"Alright, alright fine. I will leave these with you, but as they are a part of his treatment I must demand that you grant him supervised use whenever he requests it."

"Deal." He opened the door and reached for the items.

"Can I at least show them to him first?"

"As you wish…" He turned and led the way.

After the elevator had descended a few floors, it became obvious Bob was actively working rather hard to avoid looking at her. Maggie was never one to resist a challenge, as evidenced by her chosen profession.

"You're wondering if they light up, aren't you."

"Excuse me?" He turned to her out of reflex.

"These," she pointed at the comical appendages on her head. "You're wondering if they light up. You'd be correct, they do." She reached up and pushed a small button on each spaceship, igniting a series of obnoxiously hued LEDs that flashed around them in a senseless, seizure-inducing orbit. Bob did his best to blink the spots out of his vision while Maggie smiled smugly to herself. The elevator dinged when they'd reached their destination.

"What're they for?"

"Well, because my last visit was a bit… tense, I decided it might be appropriate to ease relations by interjecting a bit of humor."

"Hmm…" Bob wasn't sure the killer had this kind of a sense of humor. He stepped ahead of the nun and unlocked the cell door to grant her entry. He avoided eye contact and did his best not to react to the spectacle.

"Sweet Zombie Jesus!!!" he heard Sylar proclaim.

He'd barely made it out of earshot before he spurted out a fugue of unrestrained laughter.

~*~*~

He did his best to ignore the flashing monstrosities swirling dizzyingly above her head and pay attention to what she was saying.

"I'd like to spend the greater part of this session discussing goals. I'd like to tell you what I'm hoping to accomplish, I'd like a chance to," and with this she meaningfully met his gaze, "give you ample opportunity for reaction, I'd like to explain what methods I'm hoping to employ, and I'd also like to hear your thoughts – which brings me to this." She handed him the notebook and pencils. "Once a day I'd like for you to write down things you suspect Gabriel would like to communicate with you, and I'd like for you to write things you'd like to communicate with him in return."

He opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced.

"Now, before you get cantankerous, young man, and start flinging me around like a big fat kite, let me finish. This is not for me, it is for you. I'm not going to make you do it – I just said that I'd like for you to do it. We all have things in life we'd like that we don't always get, I'm a big girl and I can accept that. This is just an exercise in opening up the lines between the two of you – there's an opportunity here to reconnect with things you both might have lost, and to ultimately be able to reconcile. I'm never going to ask you for it, I'm never going to look at it – not unless you want me to and you show it to me. It's not homework, it's therapy. You either want it or you don't, the choice is up to you. It's the choice that I'm presenting you with."

He removed the pencils from the plastic package while she spoke. They were red, blue, yellow, and green – adorned with crosses and little alpha fish, obviously from a Christian store. And, of all things, as if he suspected anything less from the woman, they were fruity scented. He wondered if this most recent affront to his manhood was reminiscent of having a grandmother…

"There's only one problem. There are rules, and it would make me very sad if you didn't follow them as I am, myself, being held to the same standard. So, I propose we make a deal." She held out her hand while she made her recitation. "In exchange for the promise of complete and total discretion and the utmost respect for the privacy of the sensitive material potentially housed within this notebook, it and its corresponding pencils must, while not in use, remain in the possession of either Officer Harriman or whomever is on duty at that present time. The good Officer," she raised her voice to be certain she was heard, although she never really had a doubt, "will also promise to uphold the integrity of these items as I would myself and faithfully relinquish them to their rightful owner upon request. Are we all in agreement? Consider this another exercise in trust."

"I already agreed upstairs…" she heard Bob call from his desk, out of sight down the hall.

"Is this something you can live with, Mr. Sylar?"

As charmed as he was by her gift and by her intentions, he wasn't completely convinced the items would ever see any use. The decision simply didn't make any difference to him.

"Sure." He shook her hand.

"Fabulous!" she exclaimed, taking her usual seat on his cot. "Now then, moving on. As I've stated before, I am treating you for Diss-"

"Dissociative Identity Disorder, yes I know."

"Yes. You know. Well, then. My ultimate goal is to consolidate your aggregate halves into a complete whole. Do not misunderstand – it is not my intention to destroy Sylar or Gabriel any more than I would allow Bob to come in here and shoot off your arms and legs."

"Don't tempt me," he called and was ignored.

"I have a teensy bit more assessment work to do before we can fully enter treatment, but once we do you'll find I have the plan divided into stages. The first is to continue to develop a safe and stable working relationship between you and me. And when I say 'safe', I'm sure you understand I'm not referring to only myself. The second phase we will only enter when you are ready, where we will begin working directly with memories that are responsible for your dissociation. I'd like to work first with hypnotherapy but I am open to alternatives if you find such treatment uncomfortable. The third and final phase is our ultimate goal – identity integration and the acceptance of 'self'."

A bit of silence passed between them while Sylar absorbed everything she'd just said.

"This is the part where you give me your react-"

"If I have such freedom of choice, how come I haven't been given the choice to refuse treatment?"

Maggie spent a few moments blinking before she thoughtfully steepled her fingers to her pursed lips. She carefully constructed her response.

"I have two answers for you. First of all, I would not refuse you the choice, however the United States Judicial System will not release you without treatment. You're sentence could end up being a lot longer than three hundred years – you'd end up spending eternity in a psych ward, which isn't much different from a prison. I don't think it's any mystery that the world views you as a serious threat and is understandably reticent to let you walk free and unchecked to continue murdering its masses. These aren't the things I want to tell you, Mr. Sylar, but I promised you honesty from the very beginning and I won't sugar coat it.

My other answer is actually a question – typically I don't like to answer questions with more questions as I find the practice stereotypical of those in my profession, not to mention counterproductive, but I will make an exception this once." She paused, almost afraid to continue. "What choice did you offer your victims, Mr. Sylar? Would you have allowed them to refuse their deaths?"

Spinning spaceships be damned, she fully expected bodily injury this time. Instead, he took a seat in his usual chair and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring. Eventually, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in defeat.

"Like I said before," she stated, a bit more confident with her feet still firmly planted on the floor and no parts of her body turned inside out, "there isn't a physical force that can hold you here. It is truthfully my belief that the reason you remain is because there's something about this you want. You know there's something wrong, and you know there's a life you'd rather be living that you haven't been able to piece together on your own. Maybe it'd be worthwhile to," she picked up the notebook and pushed it into his lap, "think about all of it and write it down."

He lowered his gaze to the collection of blank pages covering his thighs. He felt her warmth as she knelt down beside him, bracing herself on the back of his chair. To get this close was an amazing leap of faith – few people ever got this close to him and lived to tell about it. She reached out and opened the notebook presenting him with blank, blue-lined pages.

"It's an interesting parallel, don't you think?" she asked in his ear. "Blank pages, just like you."

A clean slate.

"Can be anything you make it," she continued. She tapped one finger on the gleaming white paper. "I think this is what you want. And there's nothing wrong with that." She tucked a finger under his chin and turned him to face her. "I want you to trust that I can help you do this. I want you to trust that I am not going to give up on you. Can you do that?" Her spaceships belied the seriousness of her tone by swinging in wild circles toward each other when she'd tilted her head.

Despite the silliness of her appearance and the levity it brought, he was still a bit confused, and maybe a little angry. He didn't want to kill her anymore, though, and that had to count for something.

~*~*~

"Why are you so nice to him?" Bob asked as he led her to the elevator. "That man has no compunction for the sanctity of human life."

"I'm fully aware of the inhumane acts he was charged with, Officer Harriman. I'm not here to dispute those facts. However, it is a common misconception that healing ends with the families of the victims. That man bears wounds that are directly responsible for his actions. To treat him inhumanely serves no purpose – what example can he draw from that for proper human behavior? How can hostility heal anything? How can we show him how to live?"

They'd reached the ground floor and the door. She turned to him one last time before she left for the week.

"Heal the wounds, heal the man, stop the killer. I'm not going to say it's that simple – it never is – but that is the code by which I live. I'm also not going to say it's always easy to do – there is real evil out in that world and there are times when it is truly difficult to remain objective. But we are all God's children – we are all lambs, and some of us are just a little lost."

With that she bid him good day and left. He watched her blinking lights twinkle out of sight. He wondered what she'd bring the next time.