Disclaimer: I do not own any of these people, places, or things nor the rights to them.

WARNING: I really messed up and meant to put this warning in a few chapters earlier, but you'll have to forgive me. This chapter will have character death in it. That being said, our main players are all okay for the time being, but I wanted to warn you before you read the chapter. I know some people like being warned about things like that, and I am truly sorry I didn't warn you earlier.

A/N: Please review if you have time, it always motivates me to write.

Claire sat in the passenger's seat of the car, all the doors locked around her. She had her knees pulled up to her chest as she slowly rocked herself back and forth. In reality it had been about three minutes since she had first got into the car, but it seemed like three lifetimes. She sat there curled up in a ball worrying. Worrying about him. And, it annoyed her. She wondered how she had let it come to this, how had she let herself drop her guard, how had she let him nudge his way into her life to the point that now she worried about his wellbeing. Deep in thought, she jumped at the knock on the driver's side window.

When Claire saw Sylar's face on the other side of the glass, she scrambled over to the door and unlocked it. He slid in to his seat, looking straight out the windshield for a long moment. She stared at his profile, studying him, hoping he would say anything.

"Keys?" he requested in a low tone still avoiding eye contact.

"Huh?" she questioned unfocused and distracted.

"The keys," this time he demanded a little sterner.

"Oh, sorry," she responded quietly.

Claire reached into her pocket and pulled out the keys to the car. She slowly offered them to Sylar, extending her arm cautiously towards him. As he reached out for the keys, she noticed the crimson staining his hand. Recoiling, she asked him the one thing she had to know. It wasn't a question; it was a fragment of a question, two words. But, if he had changed, if he had left the other Sylar behind him, the question had to be asked.

"Did you-?" she stuttered eyeing his bloody hands.

He looked down at his hands, understanding exactly what she as was asking. He wished he had killed the taxidermist. He had wanted to, not just to protect Claire, not just because of the hunger, not just for murdering his real mother or for selling a confused little boy to parents that would never understand him, but mostly because Sylar didn't want to accept that Samson Gray was a tangible vision of his own future. Despite all of his powers, all of his conquests, Samson Gray was still a pathetic man that would die alone with nothing to show for his life. And, whether Sylar died tomorrow or a millennium from now, he knew he would end up the same way. He wished he could tell Claire her tormentor was dead, even if it meant she would only see him as the monster she thought he still was, because, at least then, one of them could have peace.

"No," he answered, pulling his gaze up to meet hers.

Sylar saw something in her eyes he hadn't expected. She was relieved. She didn't want him to be a murderer again. Half of an idle smile flashed across his face but quickly faded as his eyes elevated to examine the scarlet halo around her scalp.

"Claire, I am sorry-" he began.

"Don't be sorry. You saved me," she interrupted sounding embarrassed.

"Saved you? I let him get inside your head. I wasn't strong enough," he corrected.

"I've had my head cut open before," she paused realizing that wasn't the best place to start, but she continued explaining anyway, "I've jumped off buildings. I've broken bones. It's not about him being inside my head, it's about himtaking my ability."

"But-" he started to counter. But, the narrow eyes that stared back at him let him know who was going to win the argument. "Okay."

"Let's just get out of here," she insisted.

Sylar obeyed, turning the keys in the ignition, and leading the car out of the parking garage.

Samson Grey sat with his back still against the concrete wall, an uneasy look on his blood soaked face. After remaining there for a long while, he stood to walk to his car. Every step down the stairs he replayed his encounter with Sylar in more detail. He was sure he had given his son something to thing about, but he wasn't sure he had distracted him enough to make a mistake. Either way he had a phone call to make, and he wasn't looking forward to making it.

Creeping into his car, he pulled out the cell phone from the glove compartment and stared at it for a long time. Finally, he dialed the only number in the contact list.

"Hello… No… I don't know if I can… No, I don't care if he's my son; it's just going to be harder than I thought… What do you mean a pick-up?... New York? No, no," he paused to cough, "I don't have time to run an errand for you in New York… Yes… I understand… Okay what's the address?"

He growled as he turned the key to start his car after throwing the phone back into the glove box. Samson didn't like the idea of letting the trail of his son and that amazing ability go cold, but she was the boss. She really likes being the boss, he thought as he headed east, back to where his deranged road trip had begun.

They cleaned up at a gas station, so they wouldn't have to explain why they both looked like they were pulled off the screen of a "slasher" movie while checking into the hotel. Claire and Sylar had driven all day since their morning encounter with Samson without stopping, apart from their brief hygienic pull-off at said gas station.

"So, you're done talking?" Claire wondered sitting on the bed of the hotel room, noting her companion's lack of communication.

"I am just thinking," he responded quietly.

"So, think with me. Do you think he'll come back?" she asked about her stalker.

"Yep," he answered quickly.

"So, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," he answered already starting to sound annoyed.

"Hey, don't get mad at me. I'm the one that he's trying to get to," she half-yelled, getting equally annoyed.

"It's not just you!" he yelled erupting violently. He, then, walked to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

Claire sat on the bed in shock. She wondered what had happened to transform him so much so fast. Her thoughts were interrupted by the crash that came from the bathroom. Rushing over to the door, she gently knocked on the door.

"What happened?" she asked softly.

There was no response.

"I am coming in," she warned before turning the knob and sliding into the restroom.

Upon entering the bathroom it wasn't hard to tell what had happened. The shattered mirror, the trail of drops of blood dotting the floor, and Sylar sitting against the far wall on the floor all told a story. He sat there breathing heavily, his knuckles bloodied from battering his own reflection in the mirror, his glassy eyes staring straight ahead.

Claire looked down at him and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her heart ached for him. There was something wrong; something in that stairwell had changed in him.

"Okay," she said soothingly, "That's alright."

Retrieving a washcloth from the towel rack, she turned on the sink and dampened the piece of material. She weaved her way next to Sylar, avoiding the broken fragments of mirror as she glided across the room. She thought she would always be terrified of him, especially when he had blood covered his hands, but there on the bathroom floor, he looked like an exhausted and defeated man, not an egotistical serial killer.

"Let me see your hand," she commanded softly, as she knelt at his side.

Sylar complied, still avoiding eye contact. He flinched to her touch as she put one hand under his bloody left hand, and used the other to start cleaning his knuckles. The cheerleader's ability pushed most of the small shards out of his hand, but Claire had to pull out the larger ones lodged deeper inside him.

"And the other one," she insisted after cleaning his left hand.

He complied again, turning slightly to face her to give better access to his right hand. Claire continued to tend to him in silence, until she had removed all the offending glass and cleaned away the blood. She dropped the now pink washcloth in front of her, and sat back against the wall, mimicking his position.

They sat there, shoulder to shoulder, for a long time until Sylar finally broke the silence.

"It's my father," his choked out, still not turning to face her.

"What?" she questioned keeping her tone gentle.

"It's my dad. The man that attacked you," he explained simply.

"Oh," she said stunned.

"Claire, I am sorry," he said not really knowing what he was apologizing for.

"It's not your fault," she whispered.

Claire brought her hand to his cheek, forcing him to face her. She could feel the rough scratch of his facial hair on her palm. He raised his gaze to meet hers, piercing her with his dark hooded eyes.

"It's not your fault," she reiterated softer and quieter.

Slowly, he brought his hand up to hers, capturing it slowly. He held it for only a second before pulling it off of his face and, even though his heart was pounding in his chest, he placed it back down at her side where it belonged. Again, they sat next to each other in silence, and again, after a long wait, Sylar broke the silence.

"Are you hungry?" he asked in a hushed insignificant voice.

"Always," she sighed, trying to lighten the mood on the bathroom floor.

Sylar let his head lightly fall back to the wall behind him, as small smile spread across his face.

"Then, let's go get food."

"Alright, then get out of here," she commanded playfully pushing his shoulder, "I am going to take a shower."

"Okay," he chuckled standing up and leaving the bathroom.

He walked over to the bed and collapsed onto the comforter as he heard the shower start. Slowly, he fell asleep wondering what had just happened in the bathroom.

About forty-five minutes later he woke up to the sound of the bathroom door closing. He poked his head up to see her leaving the bathroom.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked, poking fun at the length of her preparations.

"Are you?" she asked, noting that he was still half asleep.

"Yeah," he answered through a yawn, standing and walking to the door.

Sylar opened the door for her, and followed into the hallway. It was only until they got into that hallway that he noticed her. Maybe it was the lighting; maybe he finally shook off the haze from the short nap, but the man that was always so focused on details, finally became aware of the blonde that walked next to him. He couldn't help but stare. He was amazed: how can someone make a plain black hoodie, a gray tank top, and jeans look so… perfect.

"What?" Claire asked half-annoyed, noticing him staring at her.

"Huh?" he said, breaking out of the spell she had him under.

"What are you looking at?"

"Oh, uh, nothing," said nervously, diverting his eyes.

"You had to pick this pizza parlor," he prodded.

They looked very out of place in the family pizza parlor, especially, with a seven-year-old's birthday party having completely taken over the restaurant.

"What?" she wondered, smiling as a gang of kids ran by their booth.

"It's chaos."

"They're kids."

"They're monsters," Sylar joked taking a bite of pizza, obviously trying to get on Claire's nerves.

"No, they are not. How is he a monster?" she nodded behind him, at little boy playing a vintage crane game, with little success. The boy, now on his toes, pressed his face against the casement, eyeing a specific stuffed animal, a duck. He pushed his glasses back up on his nose, brushed his straight blond hair out of his eyes, and put another quarter into the machine. The three-hooked crane lowered, and grasped nothing but air.

"You're right, he's not monster; he's just not very bright."

"Shut up," she faked anger, her heartbreaking for the little boy.

"He's never getting that duck, the crane isn't going hold anything that heavy. That's how they make their money."

"Whatever. He's going to get it this time," Claire wished, leaning in watching more intently as the boy put another quarter into the machine.

The crane hovered over the ultimate prize. It lowered and grasped around the head of the duck. Pulling the stuffed animal out of the sea of cheap plush toys, the hook seemed hold on to the duck by and invisible string, impossibly grasping the toy. Before the toy dropped into to where the boy could receive his prize, Claire noticed Sylar looking on, his right index finger barely extended holding the duck up telekinetically. After raising both arms in triumph, the boy grabbed the duck and ran off still celebrating. She looked over at Sylar, who was smirking in that familiar narcissistic way.

"Don't be so proud of yourself," she chastised playfully.

"You're welcome," he told her through a smirk, understanding how badly she wanted the boy to win.

His sarcastic pleasantry was met with an over-the-top eye roll.

"What else can you do?" she questioned, changing the subject.

"What?"

"Moving stuff with your mind, seen that one; electricity, seen it. You got to have some other useful tricks."

He looked at her hand, nodding to a piece of jewelry on right ring finger.

"Let me see your ring," he requested.

She removed it and dropped it into Sylar's out stretched hand. He closed his eyes as he held in between his thumb and forefinger. Deep in concentration he spoke with his eyes closed, even though Claire could see his pupils darting around behind his eyelids.

"The emerald was mined in Khewra, Pakistan and shipped to China, where it was cut and set in stainless steel. Then, after a stop in customs in California, it was shipped to a small jewelry shop in the Music City Mall in Odessa, Texas. Three people tried it on before a cheerleader and her mom walk in to the store. She tries it on," he explained, changing tenses as if he was actually watching the events happen right in front of him. "It's too expensive. She bargains with her mom, who finally budges, giving into the persistency. It doesn't leave her finger very often anymore."

Claire smiled at the, now, shared memory. Her eyes widen as the vivid gold color originated at where his fingertips held the ring in place and slowly spread along the silver loop until the entire piece of jewelry was gold. He smiled as he handed back to her. Claire put it on her finger and examined it on her extended hand.

"It's different, but I like it."

"Good, because I can't change it be back," he laughed.

The cold night of New York City stung the diseased lungs of Samson Grey as he exited his car and began down the alley he parked in front of. The dumpster on the dimly lit side street was exactly where it was supposed to be. The briefcase underneath it was where it was supposed to be also.

The taxidermist pulled out the plain aluminum case and slid it on top of the dumpster it was once concealed under. Flicking up the tabs keeping the case shut, he grinned at the contents: a syringe filled with a clear liquid, a familiar hunting knife, a few stacks of hundred dollar bills, and scrap of paper with an address scribbled on it. He shut the case and turned to get back into his car.

Peter's cell phone buzzed from the table next to the hospital bed. He turned and looked at it from where he laid cramped on the small bed, his head still rested on Emma's shoulder as she slept. Normal visitors probably weren't allowed to lay in bed with a patient, but two employees of the hospital were allowed certain privileges.

After an internal debate of whether to answer the phone or not, he decide to check the name of the caller. He slowly moved to the phone, as not to wake Emma, and check the screen. He was pretty certain he would ignore the call, but when he saw the caller was his mother he figured he better answer.

"Hey, mom," he answered with a tired voice.

"Good morning, Peter," Angela responded, "I need to speak with you."

"Okay, what do you need to talk about?"

"I'd prefer to speak to you in person."

"Ma, I'm with Emma and she-"

"Peter, this is very important. I'll send someone over there to make sure Emma's fine and you may go straight back to her afterwards, but there's something I need to show you."

"Okay. Where are you?"

"There's a car waiting for you outside, the driver has the instructions."

"I'll see you soon."

Peter scribbled Emma a note and walked out to meet the car waiting for him.

Peter entered the elevator of the posh apartment building and pressed the "P" button to begin his ascent to the penthouse, as his mother's driver had instructed him. He couldn't shake the inexplicable uneasy feeling he had as the elevator climbed. When his mother had something "important" to tell him it always seemed to pertain to some form of tragedy.

The ding of the elevator alerted Peter that he had arrived at the top floor. He stepped straight into the penthouse. The modern motif of the apartment, reminded him of a science lab, the overuse of white and flat surfaces kept him uneasy. The place didn't feel like a home.

"Peter, I am in here," Angela called from a room to his right.

He walked into what was assuredly a bedroom. His eyes fell instantly to the bed. The sheets were pulled over the head of the lifeless body in the bed. But, the more shocking thing to Peter though was the amount of blood staining the white sheet around the corpse's head.

"What the hell is going on, mom?"

Angela just nodded at the body. Her gesture was obvious. Peter didn't know if he wanted pull back the sheets, but he was compelled by curiosity. He pulled back the sheet to reveal a man missing the top of his head. It wouldn't have come as such a shock if it had been anyone else.

"I don't understand. How could someone-" Peter stopped, his voice trailing off at the pure shock of the moment.

"A sedative, injected in his neck while he was sleeping, his power was useless while he was unconscious," Angela announced far to calm for the situation, pointing at the syringe on the nightstand next to the Haitian's lifeless corpse.

"This wasn't Gabriel, I promise, it can't be," he began to explain desperately.

"I know, Peter. Though, this has very much to do with Sylar."

"What do you know?" Peter asked after a pause, knowing full well his mother was holding out on him.

"I know René's ability will help finally stop Sylar," she continued nonchalantly.

"Stop him? Mom, he's different, he's changed. He's not killing anymore."

"Changed?" her tone was cutting, "Peter, 'changed,' does not bring my son back!"

It struck Peter, what was going on. Her whole plan was revealed in one emotional outburst. He felt the anger boiling up inside of him.

"This is all about revenge for Nathan, isn't it? You feed this guy René's ability so he can go kill Gabriel. What about Claire? Your granddaughter?" he yelled at his mother.

"Well, he'll take her ability too, like I promised him. She'll play the victim, like she's used to, and she'll move along with our help. And, Sylar will pay for what he's done to our family."

"And, after that? Then, you've got a killer even more powerful than Sylar!"

"One that I can control, Peter," she assessed regaining her calm.

"Why are you telling me this?" Peter asked, wondering what motivation she had for revealing this to him.

"So, you know that there's nothing you can do to help them. With the Haitian's ability, there's nothing that can be done. And, if you get in Samson's way, I don't know what he'll do. So, just stay here and care for Emma and let the inevitable happen."

"Samson? Samson Gray? My God, ma, what have you done?"

"I've done what is necessary for this family to move on."

"What family?" he exploded, his yell filling the empty apartment. "We're the only one's left. Gabriel, Emma, and Claire are my family, now. And, I will make sure nothing happens to them."

"I am sorry you feel that way, Peter. But, you will always be my son," she noted looking down her nose at him.

Peter just turned and started to walk out the bedroom still steaming.

"His flight left five hours ago, Peter," she called to him as he left the room. "He's probably catching up to them right now. There's nothing you can do!"