Popped in to do a quick edit. All better now.

Later…

I've drawn the blinds. The thought of him watching me in this state of panic is less than appealing. I let the dim light from the single hanging bulb in the ceiling fill the room, giving an almost eerie cast to my surroundings, and I remember why I like keeping the windows open. Electricity these days sucks.

I'm pacing the scarred and splintered hardwood floor of my living room, my eyes glancing furtively towards the basket on the other side of the room every few minutes.

The baby is alive. The adrenaline and feeling of sickness that had flooded me when I'd found it… her… hasn't entirely left. Once I'd regained any sense of myself on the porch, I'd grabbed the basket and the clock, running into the house and slamming the door shut behind me. I'd inspected the baby then, lifting her carefully out of her blankets as the dried blood flaked off of her skin and into my hands.

I'd removed her tiny, blood-soaked clothes, crusted and stuck to her otherwise pale skin. There were no marks, not a cut or a puncture wound or even a rash. She was perfect. The blood obviously belonged to someone else. Her parents no doubt; why else would Sylar have brought me a blood-drenched baby?

I didn't let my thoughts wander in that direction for long. She was still sleeping despite my handling of her. She looked like a tiny cherub lying there, tiny blonde locks turned pink with blood.

I couldn't bear to touch her for another second. I dumped her back into the basket, covering her with the blanket and letting the crusting pink jumper fall next to the alarm clock.

What the hell had he been thinking bringing a child here? I had enough trouble taking care of myself, what made him think I could handle an infant? Maybe he'd gone mad, forgotten which century it was. Four hundred years ago, I would have been able to drop the baby off at the local fire station, but these days… these days people had a hard enough time caring for themselves and keeping their own children fed. No one would take in an orphan. New laws had been made just twenty years before to prevent people from feeling guilty over turning away the parentless. Orphans are now sent to special camps outside the city limits. No infant would survive there. Teenagers barely manage. "Orphanages" today are the new Auschwitz. The smoke rising from them daily attests to that fact, and curiously enough, they are one of the only institutions that has remained intact since that particular government scattered.

I glance at the corner with the sleeping angel… Obviously, I can't take her there.

She squirms in her basket, letting out a baby sigh and I flinch at the sound. It's been so long since I've been around someone so small. I don't really go out much… and when I do, it's not to meet people with kids.

She's awake now, her wide blue eyes open and curious. The perfect porcelain of her skin is still obscenely flecked with dried blood. I can't handle it anymore.

I'm leaning over the basket in seconds, arms reaching down and lifting her up and out of the tattered blankets. She squirms slightly in my hands as I lift her, supporting her head. I remember that much at least. I wonder briefly how old she is. She's not a newborn, but she can't be that old. A couple of week's maybe. She doesn't have much strength in her neck, though she's lifting it slightly and turning her little head from side to side. No teeth. And she's beginning to make noise.

"Hi," I say lamely, resting her against my shoulder and making my way to the kitchen. She continues to gurgle over my shoulder, hands clenched tightly in my shirt.

I keep her in my arms as I plug the sink, running the tap and hoping my warm water is working today. It is.

I set her in the water, careful not to let her slip down. All I need is to drown the live baby Sylar left on my doorstep. I'm sure he'd appreciate the irony there.

Once she's cleaned, the water is tinged pink. I drain it quickly, picking her tiny slippery body up and grabbing my jacket to wrap her in. I carry her back to the living room. She's fussing now, her little lungs showing a bit of power as she cries. Honestly, I'm surprised she was so quiet up until now. I get the feeling she's not a very loud baby.

"I'm sorry," I say, not sure why I'm talking to the infant, "I don't have any milk."

Her cries stop briefly at the sound of my voice and she watches intently before giving another whimper.

"What am I going to do with you?" I say softly, picking her up and holding her close to my chest, hoping my heartbeat will calm her.

She turns her face to my breast and begins to nuzzle through my shirt. I can't help smiling. I frown as I catch myself. This isn't my baby. It's a game my own personal stalker left on my doorstep. It's a helpless infant I'll never be able to find a home for…

My eyes wander to the basket and the clock on the floor and I realize just what he intended me to use them for. Looks like I'm taking a trip to the trade center.

I look down at the baby in my arms and wonder just what I'm supposed to do with her in the meantime. Her brief, distressed cry makes up my mind for me.

Minutes later, a long strip of cloth has her resting against my chest and I'm out the door, basket and electronic in tow.

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Truly, Mel and Chuck.