Babbling: This is set approximately after season one. Reviews are, as always, great motivation to write. Many thanks to my beta, Lara-Van.
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes nor am I making any money from writing this.

Sylar stepped off the bus, the dry leaves carpeting the sidewalk crackling underfoot. He turned in time to see the driver exhale softly in relief and close the door. A dark smile tugged at the corners of his lips as the bus pulled away. The sidewalks were lined with barren trees and the air was cool, bordering on cold. The sky should've been black, but this was the city and a grimy orange glow rose above it to take a chunk out of the dark. Locating a street sign, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his black woolen coat and set off at a brisk walk toward it.

The house was unremarkable, just like every other house in the neighborhood. It was brown brick, one story, and had a very large living room window. Drapes were currently pulled nearly across the window, but the space between was black. Leaves coated the front lawn and dusted a Ford Taurus in the driveway. Sylar started across the street, weaving between two parked cars. He had to ring the doorbell three times before somebody answered and when somebody did, it was a balding man around 30 in frayed pajama bottoms and a T-shirt with a Corvette on it.

"Yeah?" muttered the sleepy, grumpy man, turning on the stoop light.

Sylar smiled in false apology at the man and looked down at his feet. "I'm sorry for calling so late, sir," he said. "but it's urgent I speak with..." he trailed off and began rummaging through his pockets. He plucked out a McDonald's receipt and pretended to read it. "Miss Joan Hudson."

The man at the door frowned, still squinting against the light. "Urgent how?"

Sylar smiled. "I'd rather not say until I've spoken to, ah... your wife?" The man still did not look pleased.

"Yeah, my wife," he said, standing taller despite the fact that he could never hope to reach Sylar's height. "Whatever you've got to say at three in the morning, I ought to hear it, too." Sylar nodded and the man deflated a bit. "I'll go get her. You wait here." The door closed in Sylar's face, but he could see lights snapping on through the gap in the curtains and hear a hushed conversation between a male and female. Moments later, the husband returned with a pink-faced brunette wearing a frayed bathrobe with pink hearts on it. He wrapped his arm around her back and hugged her to his side.

"Uhm, yes?" the woman said in a soft, attractive voice.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sylar said, "My name is Dr. Suresh. I'm a geneticist. I'm here to discuss some... changes that may be happening to you." The woman looked at him sharply for a moment and frowned.

"This couldn't wait 'til morning?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but no. If I'm right, there is somebody who may be coming after you and your family." It was Mohinder Suresh pouring from his mouth, though the doctor probably wouldn't have chosen to call at this time. The husband began to close the door. "A serial killer," Sylar said. Man and wife turned and gave each other startled looks before the woman detached herself from her husband and walked into their living room. Mr. Hudson moved away to give Sylar access as he moved to sit beside his wife on the sofa.

Sylar looked around the small living room, noting family photos of these two as well as a blond boy of about five. He looked back to the two sitting on the shell pink sofa, gazing expectantly at him. The first priority was to learn what this woman's special ability was. He took off his coat, laid on the back of an armchair next to the sofa, and sat down. He leaned forward.

"As I've said, I'm a geneticist, ma'am. I've made up a list of those people with a certain genetic marker, one that you share. These genetics may make it possible for you to," he paused, "do things that are out of the norm." Sylar paused and met the woman's eye. "Have you noticed an ability manifesting, one you may not have had before?" The woman looked sharply up at him before her eyes flicked to her husband. She lowered her gaze down to her tangled fingers.

"No," she said uncertainly, untangling her hands and smoothing down her robe. Sylar waited. "Well, yes, I -- has this got anything to do with...?" She looked down again, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle, and then clasped her husband's hand. "I think I-I'm going crazy. I was arguing with my son because he wouldn't drink his milk. Ben was at work and I have a hard time being firm with my son and... well, we were fighting and I was getting frustrated and things started... shaking. The dishes started rattling and the chairs were... were moving. It wasn't just me. Jeremy was there. The milk fell right into his lap." Mrs. Hudson looked up and smiled, though it was strained. Her face was a deeper shade of pink. "I thought it was an earthquake, but it keeps happening and when I talk to my neighbors, they don't know what I'm talking about. In our bedroom," she squeezed her husband's hand, turning a deeper pink, "plaster was falling out of the walls." Both she and her husband looked away in embarrassment, though their sex life was of little consequence to Sylar.

There was a silence and then Mr. Hudson stood. "Would you like a glass of water, Joan? Mr. Suresh?"

"No, thank you," Sylar said, looking back to Joan, who'd nodded. The other man left the room. "You aren't going crazy. There are hundreds of people with the same genetic marker, though it manifests in different ways." He smiled reassuringly and reached out to lay a hand on her arm. "Could you show me?"

Joan laughed, embarrassed. "I can try," she said as her husband came back to the room with their glasses. He set hers down on the table and retreated back to the couch with his. Joan picked up her glass drank some before setting it back down and placing her fingertips on the wooden coffee table. For a moment, nothing happened. The water in the glass began to tremble and slosh, then the table itself began to vibrate. The glass fell over, splashing water all across the table. Joan removed her fingertips, still looking embarrassed. All three of them watched in silence as the cup rolled off the table and thudded onto the carpet.

Joan was the first to look up, staring at the top of Sylar's lowered head. Her husband pulled her close with wide eyes and kissed her cheek. Still Sylar looked down at the fallen cup. When he finally looked up in Joan's red, nervously hopeful face, a terrible, predatory smile had snaked its way onto his face. Joan leaned back and into her husband, startled.

Sylar stood, dark and looming. "That's amazing," he said in a low, terrible voice, gesturing to the fallen cup. He looked down at the pair and saw the puzzle pieces click into place, a look of fear. A serial killer... Sylar looked greedily down at the woman, devouring her fear with dark eyes. Her husband jumped up.

"Get out of our home, you fucker," he growled. Sylar didn't budge, didn't even lift his gaze from the woman. The man pulled his arm back to take a swing. Sylar waved a hand and the man lifted off and hit the end table beside the couch, his head cracking on it and the lamp falling. Both Sylar and the woman looked at him for a moment. Blood began to pool beneath the fuzzy eggshell of a head. The woman emitted a horrified gasp and shot off the couch.

Sylar's telekinesis caught her right before the dark hallway. She slammed into the corner and fell, shouting, but that did not deter her. She quickly got to her feet and began limping down the dark hallway. Sylar followed lazily and flicked his finger at her silhouette. Once again, she slammed into the wall, screaming. It hurt Sylar's ears. It even drowned out the ticking of the clock. She began half-crawling down the hallway. Sylar slammed her into a door frame. Apparently that was the door she was looking for because she pulled herself up on the knob and opened the door. Sylar stood at the entrance to the hallway and watched her silhouette crouch over, presumably to grab her injured leg. Did she think she was going to escape him? Crawl out a window? He grinned and flicked his finger. The woman, still crouched, slammed into one wall, then another. Her screams echoed in his head and doubled. For twice the pain, she'd receive twice the punishment. Her shadow slammed against the wall again and again. Her hair flew and soon, blood did too. Her screaming subsided to choked whimpers.

"Jer--" she choked, "Jer--" Sylar saw her shadow dripping blood onto the beige carpet. "Jeremy!" The woman screamed and Sylar saw her twist to form a contorted, dragon-like shape. "Jeremy!" she sobbed and choked. Sylar flicked his finger in wicked delight and her rag doll body smashed itself into the wall again and quieted.

Sylar tilted his head, surveying. There was something wrong with the way she was shaped. He frowned and moved forward until he was standing over her body and her son's. Blood was running from four sets of nostrils. Two mouths. Two battered, mangled faces. It turned Joan's hair black whereas it turned the boy's dark orange. Looking into the crushed face of the boy, he didn't notice the bloody hand that reached out and touched his polished shoe, winding itself into his laces.

Suddenly Sylar was thrown off his feet, shaking as though he'd stuck his hand into a wall socket. His teeth rattled against each other and he couldn't see straight for the shaking of his eyeballs. Gritting his teeth together, he slowly turned his shaking head right into Joan's bloodied face, lifted only slightly off the carpet. A demonic look was in her bright blue eyes, enhanced by the blood she had to blink out of them. The vibrations were unbearable. The nearly healed wound in his chest throbbed. His bones felt as if they might shatter and he couldn't hear past the roaring in his ears. Growling, he raised his hand. Blood flew everywhere as her forehead was sliced open jaggedly from temple to temple.

The sky was just beginning to lighten from between the small gap in the curtains when Sylar finished his work. He was seated on the easy chair, bent forward over Joan's body which lay on the coffee table. He lifted his head skyward as a new ability flooded in and sighed in relief. Tugging his fingers out of her head, he wiped his bloodied hands on the front of Joan's pale yellow nightgown. He glanced around for a moment before placing his hand against the wall to his left. Vibrations began and rapidly increased, shaking and jolting the curtain rod, before it came down nearly on his head. He lifted his fingers from the wall, noting the small cracks around where each finger had been, and grinned. He stood and stretched, allowing a lazy, satiated smile to tug at his lips. He opened black eyes and looked around the living room, bathed in a soft, golden morning glow.

It was as if his rose-coloured glasses had fallen off his face. Joan Hudson lay on the coffee table, gore caking her mangled body, dripping off the table. The top of her head, glossy dark brown hair clinging to it, was lying half under the sofa. A man gone to seed lay on the floor, half covered by the fallen curtains, his head smashed in and his eyes clouded. Following the line of gore down the hallway, Sylar could just see a boy's legs covered in Hulk pajamas. Blood was sprayed up the cream walls.

Oh God. A small white and orange cat meandered out of the kitchen and began to lap at the water remaining in the fallen glass. Ohgod ohgod. Forgive me.