SEPTEMBER 2520

Every so often, he leaves me gifts. I'm not talking about diamonds or roses. Diamonds went out of fashion centuries ago, and roses have gone extinct. No, he leaves me things he thinks I can barter, things that can help me. The last time I opened my door and found an ancient laptop on the steps it got me about a month's worth of food and a week's rent. A 'new' fascination has been growing with USA-era technology lately; Sylar's uncanny ability to make things work, coupled with his penchant for being both lover, provider, and enemy to me, has made this a very good thing for me on the economic front.

So I draw back the deadbolt on my front door and let it swing open. As my sandal-clad feet touch the stoop… I stop.

The basket is old and wicker. The blanket is ratty with a faded floral pattern. The electric alarm clock is tied with a frayed green ribbon. And the infant in the basket is covered in blood.

I don't move. All I can do is stare at the still form in the basket. The blood has dried on its pale cheek; its fine blonde hair is matted and caked with the same thick fluids. Its eyes are shut. The sun, bright overhead, shines obscenely down on the still infant, making the tiny gold bracelet on its tiny little wrist shine.

I can't stop my reaction. My heart begins to race and my eyes go wide as I stare down. I can feel my pulse thudding as the world goes quiet around me and all I can focus on is the tiny baby in the basket, its pale pink jumper stained with congealed blood.

My hand travels to my chest, caresses my locket and grips the chain tightly. I can't believe he's done this. I expect so many atrocities from the man, the monster… but this is on a whole new level. For months I've been in a state of tension, of doubt, but as I stare down at the child on my doorstep, my mind is made up.

He is the killer I've been chasing, the twisted fuck I've been after for centuries. The man who murdered my family. My life. My child. The monster who has abused me, used me, toyed with me… made me love him.

My throat is burning but my eyes are dry and unblinking as I stare. The grotesque portrait he's painted with the basket and the child makes my stomach turn and my thoughts reel. I can't stand here, looking at it. It's too much.

I force myself to turn, teeth clenched and jaw gritted. My apartment seems dim now in contrast to the bright sun outside… and still I see the infant in front of me. The image is burned onto my retina, a new portrait I can put in my locket.

As I cross the threshold, I hear it.

Blankets rustle and a child whimpers.

And I turn.

It's staring up at me, blue eyes wide as its bow-shaped mouth forms a perfect 'o' and it begins to wail. Its bloody fists escape the confines of the blanket and the perfect little fingers wave about until a thumb finds its way into its mouth.

It quiets and its eyes flutter shut against the bright sun.

I fall into a heap on my own front porch, legs too weak to hold me as I stare down at the infant, wondering what Sylar was thinking and what the hell I'm supposed to do.

This was another short, but extremely important chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Love, Mel (who is back from vacation) and Chuck