As we said before, this is a dark story and is rated M for a reason. You have been warned. Don't forget to review.

Mel and Chuck

JUNE 2520

He disappeared after taking me in the bathroom, and I've been wanting him back ever since. I miss the feel of my blade sinking between his ribs, the feel of him plunging into my body. I don't know what I miss anymore. All I know is that I want him here so I can hurry up and decide. I've been walking around in a haze for the past two years, on a perpetual high and a perpetual low. The problem I have now is with the pattern.

He's still following it even as I curse its existence. I want him to come to me now; I'm tired of waiting for him. My knife is sharp and I'm continually tense, waiting for the sound of his voice so I can pounce and try for the next spot. I've been thinking about sticking him in the soft flesh behind his kneecap lately.

The only problem now is getting him here.

The epiphany comes to me in a bar. I'm watching a couple, both seriously drunk, as they grind on the dance floor. His hands are in her pants and she's writhing as they move in tandem. It makes me think of him. So much does nowadays. I can barely move without the silver locket brushing my skin and my thoughts surrounding him and what could have become of my life.

I had named him by the time my body rejected the baby. I hadn't even been fighting against Sylar's control anymore. I had settled into a happy routine, accepting my life for what it was and even enjoying it. It wasn't until I'd lost him that everything came crashing back in on me and I remembered my hate, violent and acidic as it began to eat at me again. To think, I had told myself I was okay being a puppet, that I was content letting him love me and carrying his baby while he destroyed what was left of our world.

But that's the past, and as my green eyes scan the dance floor, I'm looking for the key to my future, whatever that might be.

I find him lingering against the far wall, a group of worn-looking women crowding around him. He's almost as tall as Gabriel, but there the similarities end. This man is not elegant or discreet. He's ostentatious from the bright cut of his clothes and obscene muscles to the pale blonde of his gelled-back hair. I don't waste any time.

I cross the floor and stand in front of him, hands on my hips and head tilted to the side speculatively. He sees me instantly. I'm the hottest, youngest woman in the bar.

"Hey there sugar," he says, shaking off the harem around him and stepping close so that his frame dwarfs me. "You looking for a good time?" I pause for a moment, contemplating my answer. It's a decision I should take my time making. He's warned me what would happen if I chose to do something like this again… and I want the consequence. His anger will be delicious, and no matter what he says, I can't quite see him ending me.

Besides, don't I have a right to know what it's like? The only other time I had let myself be with someone, it had been specifically for the pain they could inspire in me. And still, none of them had been a match for Sylar. This time, I was looking for the pleasure. Could someone else move me to the quaking release he was so good at arousing in me? As I smile and nod, taking the big blonde's hand, I think it's time to find out.

We end up at my place. There's no use trying to hide from him, especially when what I really want is for him to find me. I take him to my bed, setting the tone. I don't want violence right now. The aim here is pleasure, and maybe a bit of tenderness. I begin slowly, caressing and kissing and stroking him. His hands are on me as he strips my clothes off and then his own. I feel the man everywhere; taste him on my tongue as he groans.

But he's drunk, and he's ready to move on. He doesn't understand the ecstasy of sensation I crave for fulfillment, or the earth-shatteringly exquisite patience I need to reach my peak. He's in me before I'm even wet and I hiss at the rough handling. The pain is dull and meager against the backdrop of things I've felt at Sylar's hands.

I sigh beneath the oaf who's inside of me, and I begin to distract myself. He's careless and drunk with no appreciation for sensation. All he wants is a quick release to get him off and then a long rest to sleep off the alcohol. It's almost laughable how little I'm enjoying myself.

I find myself longing for something more, imagining it's Gabriel above me and not a stranger. In my mind he strokes and teases, shoots pins and needles across my flesh and bites me roughly to leave marks that fade away in seconds. He's manipulating me masterfully and stoking the fire of pure being inside of me until I want to burst into a thousand little pieces of lust. And as I explode he's there, against the far wall, arms outstretched and head hanging limp against his chest, an obscene imitation of Christ with a spike sticking out of one perfectly dark eye.

I stir from my waking nightmare screaming as the blonde man is ripped from my body and thrown like a rag doll. He shrieks and crashes through the thin wall like a bowling ball knocking over pins. I hear the cries of my neighbors as the man lands on their dining room table and then the commotion that follows as they scramble from the apartment. They know trouble when they see it, and they're unwilling to stick around for the upcoming show.

"Claaaaaaire." I hear his voice as I come out of the haze. His hands are around my throat and he's straddling me. His dark eyes are on a level with mine and he's shows his teeth, wolf-like. A part of me rejoices at the proximity even as I shiver in terrified anticipation.

"You've been a very irresponsible girl," he chides softly, the side of one hand caressing my cheek before his other palm comes crashing down in a resounding slap. I feel it ringing in my ears. I relish it before I realize how crazy that is. His punishment isn't something I should desire. "What would Noah think of his precious daughter whoring herself out like a common tramp?"

My father's name on his lips pushes me to the edge and I struggle beneath him, my naked body writhing as I punch and scratch with my nails, leaving shallow grooves in his face that heal within moments. "Don't you dare bring my family into this," I hiss as he captures my hands, pinning them to the pillow above me. His eyes trail down my body, assessing coolly as he scowls.

"You look like a slut," he hisses back, letting me go and keeping me pinned with his thoughts. I glance down at my body and have to agree with him. I'm gasping and my naked breasts are heaving, a thin sheen of sweat coats my body and my skin is flushed.

"You!" he says, flicking his fingers casually at the hole in the wall as he leaves me. I feel oddly empty without him near. The thought makes me want my knife.

The man I was with comes hurtling through the wall, stopping mid-air and dangling by whichever invisible thread Sylar is manipulating.

"It's not nice to fuck another man's wife while he's away," he says, raising his other hand and letting it trace a line of parting flesh and blood down the man's naked chest. By the time he's done my ears are resounding with shrieks of pain and the room is filled with the unpleasant odor associated with death and exposed entrails. My stomach turns at the smell and I feel myself wanting to retch, not a very good idea while Sylar is still willing me on my back. I'd end up choking.

The silence tells me he's finished, as does the weight I feel beside me on the bed. I let my eyes open and turn my face to look at him. He's lying to my right, his elbow propping his head up at an almost quizzical angle. There are smears of bright blood all along his hands and arms and in his hair where his fingers rest.

"I don't know why you have to make things so difficult, Claire," he says, using his free hand to trace around my face and mouth. I feel the stickiness of blood coat my lips and I shiver. "If you wanted my attention you could have gotten it without doing something so stupid. Now I'll have to punish you." He looks sad at the prospect, like a disappointed father grounding his child for sneaking out. "I don't take pleasure in hurting you, Claire," he assures me as my breathing quickens. "Well, that's a lie, but I'd rather you enjoy it with me." He chuckles dryly as my pupils dilate and I'm left quivering before him, more aroused at the prospect of receiving pain from him than I ever was at the prospect of pleasure from the dead man on the floor.

As the first swipe of the knife parts the soft flesh of my breast I scream and wonder what's wrong with me.

Hello! Mel will be travelling for the rest of this week, so through the 27th. If posts don't come quickly, she apologizes. Just remember that this volume is complete, and will be posted in its entirety... eventually. :)