Claire's consciousness returns to her in increments. First she's aware of the steady rise and fall of her diaphragm. Breathe in. Breathe out. Then she's aware of rough fabric and a hard surface at her cheek. She's curled on her side, her knees drawn upward. There's a vague rushing noise that seems familiar. When she feels ready to open her eyes, she finds that they are open already. She is surrounded by darkness.
Claire makes a soft, startled noise in her throat and tries to stretch out, but her feet find a barrier.
"The . . . hell?" she murmurs hoarsely. Then: Oh-shit-I'm-in-a-coffin! The thought is accompanied by a sharp stab of panic. Suicide suddenly seems like a regrettable idea.
But that's not right. Coffins aren't shaped like this. And that rushing noise—it's reminiscent of a vehicular hum.
Oh shit I'm in a . . . trunk?
God, it's just her luck, isn't it? She remembers looking into the lens of a camera a lifetime ago and speaking the words, This is Claire Bennet, and that was attempt number one. How many attempts will it take? Can there never be an end to this?
To assuage the mounting despair inside of her, she focuses on her location, trying to keep her thoughts slow, steady, calm.
Okay . . . there is a reason I am here. Someone had to put me here. Someone put my dead body in the trunk and drove off with it. Who would do that?
And her next whispered words are, "Oh, god, no, please, no . . .!"
[] [] []
Sylar flinches, startled, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. Then he relaxes, smiles in satisfaction, and starts searching for a back road to turn into. The kicking, screaming, and general racket from behind the backseat can mean only one thing.
"Well, well," he says loudly several minutes later, when he's found a nice little alcove in the woods. He shoves the keys into the lock on the trunk and twists. "Sleeping Beauty awakens—and it's about damn—"
He doesn't finish, because lo and behold: the immortal cheerleader, all five feet and two inches of her, springing out of the trunk with her hands extended, not to embrace him for saving her life, but to beat the living hell out of him.
"You sick—!" Her knuckles collide with his cheekbone.
"Ow . . ."
"Sick, twisted-!"
"Ow!"
"Demented motherf-!"
"Okay, that's enough!" He thinks she yanked out some hair that time. Shoving her off, he steps lithely out of range of further blows and smoothes down his thick, black hair. They stare each other down for a moment of mutual seething. They're both breathing hard.
"You're welcome," he says at last.
Claire is stupefied by his arrogance.
"You're welcome?" she repeats scathingly. "For what?"
He scoffs.
"You're here, aren't you?" he points out.
"Oh—right—forgive me!" she replies, nodding. "That's true, I am here—exactly where I didn't want to be. Thank you so much, Sylar, for doing exactly what I didn't ask you to do. You're sooooo reliable like that. Always have been."
"You wanted it," he challenges, nostrils flared and jaw tight.
"I'm sorry?"
"You heard me. That's why you called—you knew I'd rush down here immediately to save the cheerleader—"
"Don't say that!" Claire snapped vehemently. "I never want to here that phrase again, ever. Especially from you . . . And if you saved me, then why was I locked in the trunk?"
Sylar blinks. For the first time, he looks mildly flustered.
"Well, you—didn't wake up," he explains. His eyes fasten on hers, and a belated wave of relief washes over him as he remembers the way they had looked back at Rutherford's—cold, milky, and dead. He wants to reach out and touch her face, reassure himself with its warmth, but he doesn't. She'd probably bite him.
"And that explains why I was in the trunk?" she prompts, jerking him out of his reverie.
"Oh, no . . . I just thought . . ."
"Thought you'd have me stuffed and use me as a tasteful centerpiece," she finishes for him, turning away. "Of course." She walks around the car.
"Thought if I could get a hold of some equipment, I could do a transfusion," he corrects irritably, slamming the trunk shut. "Isn't that the way it works?"
Shooting a final glance back at him, Claire climbs into the passenger seat and closes the door. Sylar reenters the car, as well, and starts the engine.
"I didn't call you because I wanted you to save me," Claire insists. She's looking straight ahead, and her voice is dull. He vastly preferred her wrath to this listlessness. "Now just . . . take me home."
"Will do." He cranes his neck to look behind him as he reverses. He misses the look Claire gives him: one of mild surprise at the simplicity with which he complies. But a frown appears on her face once he's back on the main road.
"My house is in the other direction," she informs him.
"That's true."
"You said you'd take me home."
"I didn't say your home." Sylar looks over to gauge her reaction, sees that she is opening her mouth to protest, and hastens onward. "Look, Claire. Maybe you called me hoping I'd come down here, maybe you didn't. But I'm here. And you're here. And obviously you can't be trusted alone, so . . . I'm sorry, but you've lost those privileges. You're coming home with me."
"Privileges? Who the hell do you think you are?"
Yes, this fury is much better, he thinks. It sends the blood rushing up to her cheeks. It banishes the memory of her death pallor.
"It really doesn't matter who I am," he says coolly. "It only matters what I am. You know, I think you've forgotten the nature of our relationship."
"We don't have a relationship. This weirdness doesn't even begin to qualify."
"Oh, yes, we do. Predator," he says, and then he turns to her and bestows, "Prey. That's the way it's always been, and let's be honest, Claire: that's just as much your fault as it is mine. So, I don't care if I'm being fair. And I really don't care if you like it. Just be glad I'm trying to keep you alive now, instead of trying to kill you."
"Yeah, you're such a sweetheart," Claire sneers, hinting at what they both know—that is, he's given up trying to harm her because he achieved it so long ago.
At that moment, she makes a sharp move for the door handle, and Sylar barely manages to get the locks on with his mind in time to stop her from bailing. She sits back in her seat, huffing.
"So are we driving to . . . Where is it you live?" she asks.
"New York," he replies. "And, no, we're not."
"How did you get here?"
"I flew."
Claire puts a palm over her face and groans, "Oh, god, you can fly now?"
"On a plane, Claire." He'll never say it, but Sylar still feels the sting of failing to acquire the power of flight. He sometimes thinks he could have tried harder with Petrelli, that maybe he would have if it hadn't been for . . . He sighs angrily, glances at her, and remembers that she's a mess. Her hair is in complete disarray, matted with dried blood, and her shirt bears similar damage.
"We'll have to stop somewhere first," he says. "Before we go to the airport, I mean. You need to clean up. It's getting late, anyway . . . Is there somewhere we could stay the night, maybe some horrible little motel where they won't notice us? Somewhere out of the way . . . filled with meth heads, prostitutes, and escaped convicts—someplace like that?"
"I'm not going to help you kidnap me, Sylar," Claire asserts, disappointing him.
Shooting her a cross look, he employs the car's GPS instead. The stars become visible in the sky as he cruises past several motels until he finds one that looks suitably termite-infested. The VACANCY sign is lit up with the exception of the V and the second A. Two men seem to be brawling in the parking lot, and a few languid spectators are watching from their open doors. One is blatantly clutching a bong. It's exactly what he was looking for.
Sylar parks the car and cuts the engine. He gazes at her profile for a minute. He wants her to comprehend the necessity of what he's doing. He wants her to rely on him. He wants to say something optimistic.
"You know you can't run from me," is what comes out of his mouth. Well, at least I'm good at futility, he thinks. Optimism, not so much.
Claire tosses him a glare as she reaches for her door, and he obligingly unlocks it.
"I know."