Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes, sadly. References will also be made to "A Clockwork Orange," by Anthony Burgess; "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," by Ken Kesey; Story title was inspired by the song "How to Save a Life" by The Fray. I also do not own these sources. PLEASE DO NOT SUE. I merely pay homage to these great works.

"What's it going to be then?"

Claire's breath stilled in the cold night air. Her head ducked slightly as she shuffled her feet in an attempt to generate some warmth. It was the cold that made her feel uncomfortable… not the question that seemed to hang in the air, or the dark figure posing it.

She raised her eyes to meet the darker eyes of the man beside her. "I don't know what you want me to say Sylar. I know you're…trying… or whatever," Lord knows, if she had a nickel for every time Peter regaled her with tales of the redeemed serial killer… "But I don't know you. All I know is the shadow you've cast over the lives of so many, the families you've devastated - for God's sake, Sylar, you killed my biological parents and helped drive a wedge between my other parents. I don't even know why we're here."

But Claire did know why she was there, past midnight strolling through the "Store-it-Here" wasteland of warehouse containers and storage units on the outskirts of Arlington. She was there at least due to a combination of Peter's needling to "just give Gabe a chance, he's really a great guy under all that" and the look of lost puppyhood on her former nightmare's face. Attached at the hip, it was a given that if she wanted to see Peter, she would have to tolerate the other man's presence. And that pained look of despondency he gave her every time she looked in his general direction was becoming too difficult to ignore. Another part of her, a secret, almost guilty part of herself wanted to assess the sincerity of Sylar's words herself, sans Peter's judgment.

"It's Gabriel." Claire looked up, startled out of her revelry by the quiet, almost embarrassed voice beside her. It was Sylar's turn to duck his head as he took a breath and continued,

"My real name that is. It's Gabriel, Gabriel Gray. Born and raised in Brooklyn. Used to be a, a watchmaker," here he paused, seemingly in discomfort, "that's where the name comes from. Sylar. I was just, desperate to be somebody else, ANYONE else."

His crystallized breath hung in the still chilly air of early spring, alongside what Claire assumed was information that only a select group was privy to. Apparently now she was a part of that club. Sylar's face, even half shrouded in darkness, still bore obvious signs of anguish.

The pair began their slow trek again, neither really certain what to say. They walked in silence for what felt like an eternity to Claire. If she wanted to know the exact time from the human chronograph next to her… she wouldn't have asked.

It was Sylar who broke the silence once more.

"So what's it going to be then? Are you and the other," his plump lower lip twisted in an almost derisive smirk, "heroes ever going to see me as human? As anything other than a one-dimensional psychopath? As anything other than Peter's latest pet project to save the world?" He leaned away from the diminutive blond, clutching his dark locks in a whitened fist.

"Sylar, I-I" Claire didn't get to finish her thought as she was swung around the corner of the nearest container seemingly under her own volition. She had too much experience in the world of specials to be anything other than annoyed.

Claire felt her head bump the cool metal, felt the peeling green paint scrape against her palm. No painful sensations of course.

"What the Hell Sylar! You don't get to just do that when you don't hear what you want! Umph!" A sweat slicked hand covered her mouth. "Do you see what I see?" Green and Brown eyes met in a charged stare. Claire conceded first and peeked around the corner.

Eyes widening, Claire took in the sight before her. Near-blinding search beams swept the area where the pair previously stood. The high beam lights were attached to scopes on long guns carried by what Claire assumed weren't your run of the mill night guards at a storage yard – if their military grade black combat gear was any indication.

Sylar cursed unintelligibly under his breath. Louder, he whispered, "Apparently it's 'hunt-for-specials' season again. Well, actually, after the whole carnival thing, I can't say I'm not surprised. Ooof!"

Claire couldn't resist a well aimed elbow to Sylar's gut. "Really, Sylar? This is the time for that?" She rolled her eyes. Of course, even she could tell from her uneventful, albeit disturbing interactions with her Uncle and his new best friend / roommate, that the heroes weren't the only specials not thrilled with her proclamation to the world two months previous. Apparently, the "reformed" serial killer was in a constant state of worry that illumination on the specials' world would somehow link him to the unsolved string of bloody murders across the country involving missing brains.

"Well Claire," and there was that smirk, the one Claire knew and loathed, "You got us into this mess, I will get us out!"

Before Claire could say anything to the contrary, Sylar's features began to contort. They twisted painfully as the…man…in front of her attempted to suppress whimpers of discomfort. After a moment of stunned horror in which Claire was unable to look away, Sylar appeared to shrink. Claire stood transfixed with a fascination only capable of a girl who's mutilated herself in every conceivable way – just to see what would happen. Finally, the gyrations of the form in front of her ceased, and Claire found her horror and fascination replaced by a nearly overwhelming urge to hit something. Hard.

Sylar shapeshifted.

Sylar shapeshifted into Claire.

Sylar shapeshifted into Claire wearing a Union Wells High School Wildcats cheerleading uniform.

Claire watched herself shrug and give a little shake. "Wow, it's been awhile. Swore I'd never use that one again. But, desperate times call for desperate measures." Smirk

Sylar was lucky that there was a pressing need for quiet; otherwise he would have felt the full force of Bennet rage at decibels unhealthy for the human ear. With barely concealed anger only betrayed in the slightest tremble of her voice, Claire managed to calmly ask, "Why…are you wearing THAT?"

Sylar looked down. "Oh, um," he straightened his mini-skirt, "I just thought Claire and I guess I'm a little rusty with this ability. This was how you looked the first time we met…" Now Claire truly was horrified as she had to watch herself turn a delicate shade of pink.

"Let me try again." He closed his eyes in concentration. Seconds later, Claire was treated to an identical version of herself in the correct college co-ed attire

"Whatever. How is playing – whatever game you're playing – going to help us with this situation?"

Pseudo-Claire took a deep breath. "Well, it worked once before. I'll run out, prance around, pretend to be you, while the real you runs in the opposite direction. Then, I'll disappear. Worst come to worst, I'll use some abilities they won't expect you to have to escape. It's fool proof."

So then why did Claire have a sinking feeling in her stomach? "For lack of a better plan, I guess we'll go for it. Don't expect me to agree with you on anything else. I just want to get to Peter to warn him."

If they haven't gotten to him already. The unvoiced thought hung between the identical "twins".

Pseudo Claire grinned, baring her teeth in a menacing way the real Claire doubted she had the capability to do. "I wouldn't have it any other way, cheerleader."

Tossing blond locks over her shoulder, the doppelganger winked. Without another word she ran out into the sea of masked men.