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teleios
Even after trying to insert himself into one of Suresh's dreams and finding out that Matt had been telling the truth, that he really had locked him out of the proverbial building in the back of his mind containing his telepathy, Sylar hadn't been particularly afraid. Bothered, yes -- as much as he claimed Matt was nothing more than a bad Christmas memory now, he liked being able to sift through the Indian's thoughts whenever he damn well pleased, and not being able to compel the army stationed at the edges of the city was certainly going to make their escape more difficult, though not impossible -- but not afraid. So the remains of Matt's personality had congealed into something tangible in his head? So what? It wasn't as though Sergeant Tubberson could actually carry through with his threat to steal his body out from under him and his inability to use his telepathy was only an annoying setback. Enough time spent battering himself against the back doors of his own brain, and he'd manage to break through whatever blocks Matt had put it place. It was the nature of his ability to adapt around whatever stood in his way. It was only a matter of time.
It's been three days since then, and he's since revised his opinion.
Matt's started following him out of the dreams now, a physical presence in the room, if only to him. Sometimes, he just sits and watches, judging him or looking for an opening for whatever the next step in his plan is. Other times, he throws his two cents into whatever he's doing or whatever conversation he happens to be having with Mohinder at the time. For the most part, Sylar's managed to ignore him, much to Matt's dismay, thankfully, but he's losing his patience and he's losing ground. After three days of putting up with Parkman's near-constant presence, it's becoming a struggle not to snap at him, to buy himself five minutes of silence, and Matt must know it, because if anything, he's gotten chattier over the course of the last few hours.
If the former cop wasn't already technically dead, he'd kill him. As it is, he just mutters something under his breath, rubbing at one corner of his eye, then glances back at Mohinder to make sure he didn't follow that. Luckily, the geneticist seems oblivious, too busy trying to get their things in order -- they're getting out of this city, with or without Matt's telepathy working for him, and a part of him wonders if that's his decision or Matt's -- and Sylar turns back to his own bag, stuffing clothing into it viciously and haphazardly, not able to focus long enough to take the time to fold anything as is the norm for him. Parkman prattling away still doesn't help.
It's been three days since then, and he's since revised his opinion.
Matt's started following him out of the dreams now, a physical presence in the room, if only to him. Sometimes, he just sits and watches, judging him or looking for an opening for whatever the next step in his plan is. Other times, he throws his two cents into whatever he's doing or whatever conversation he happens to be having with Mohinder at the time. For the most part, Sylar's managed to ignore him, much to Matt's dismay, thankfully, but he's losing his patience and he's losing ground. After three days of putting up with Parkman's near-constant presence, it's becoming a struggle not to snap at him, to buy himself five minutes of silence, and Matt must know it, because if anything, he's gotten chattier over the course of the last few hours.
If the former cop wasn't already technically dead, he'd kill him. As it is, he just mutters something under his breath, rubbing at one corner of his eye, then glances back at Mohinder to make sure he didn't follow that. Luckily, the geneticist seems oblivious, too busy trying to get their things in order -- they're getting out of this city, with or without Matt's telepathy working for him, and a part of him wonders if that's his decision or Matt's -- and Sylar turns back to his own bag, stuffing clothing into it viciously and haphazardly, not able to focus long enough to take the time to fold anything as is the norm for him. Parkman prattling away still doesn't help.
He doesn't like this.
Sylar knows he needs help if he's going to take on Parkman and Petrelli -- he might be smarter than both of them, but they're better armed, and he's never been good at fighting on two fronts -- but people don't just offer people like him help without a catch. Arthur's going to want something from him in return, and as good as he usually is about repaying kindness where kindness is offered, he likes to do it on his own terms. He wants to be the one who decides what and when people get something out of him, not have a debt held over his head, and he knows that's how it's going to go with Arthur. The Petrelli patriarch's already tried it, feeding him some bullshit story about how he's his son to him over the phone to try and make him feel obligated, and he doesn't owe him a damn thing yet. It can only get worse from here on out, he figures, and it's not like he can't find Suresh on his own. He's done it before, biding his time until the heroes let their guard down and move on to more important things, and he's got all the time in the world to wait now. They don't.
Unfortunately, however, neither does Suresh and as angry as he is, he's not too keen on waiting to reclaim what's his and what should belong to him, and that probably explains why, against his better judgement, he gets out of the car and stalks up to the building. If this goes badly, he'll just kill Arthur and go his own way. He makes a show of making sure Arthur knows that's in the cards, too, blowing the door off the hinges as he reaches it in a disturbing display of power. Arthur told him not to kill anyone on his way up here, and he didn't, but he never said he couldn't wreck his little house of cards when he got here.
Sylar knows he needs help if he's going to take on Parkman and Petrelli -- he might be smarter than both of them, but they're better armed, and he's never been good at fighting on two fronts -- but people don't just offer people like him help without a catch. Arthur's going to want something from him in return, and as good as he usually is about repaying kindness where kindness is offered, he likes to do it on his own terms. He wants to be the one who decides what and when people get something out of him, not have a debt held over his head, and he knows that's how it's going to go with Arthur. The Petrelli patriarch's already tried it, feeding him some bullshit story about how he's his son to him over the phone to try and make him feel obligated, and he doesn't owe him a damn thing yet. It can only get worse from here on out, he figures, and it's not like he can't find Suresh on his own. He's done it before, biding his time until the heroes let their guard down and move on to more important things, and he's got all the time in the world to wait now. They don't.
Unfortunately, however, neither does Suresh and as angry as he is, he's not too keen on waiting to reclaim what's his and what should belong to him, and that probably explains why, against his better judgement, he gets out of the car and stalks up to the building. If this goes badly, he'll just kill Arthur and go his own way. He makes a show of making sure Arthur knows that's in the cards, too, blowing the door off the hinges as he reaches it in a disturbing display of power. Arthur told him not to kill anyone on his way up here, and he didn't, but he never said he couldn't wreck his little house of cards when he got here.
for writer's block table: nightmare
May. 8th, 2011 04:01 pm"Mind if I use your phone?"
Bennet looks at him oddly, shrugging when whatever momentary hesitations he has passes, and gestures him behind the bar to the phone on the wall. Sylar offers him a thin smile and slips behind the counter top, pressing one shoulder into the wall to lean there as he picks up the phone and dials. It starts ringing immediately, but the pick up on the other end isn't so quick, and he shifts a bit, looking out over the group as they assemble, drifting in in ones and twos and immediately finding seats to settle.
It's the second meeting of the Midnight Society or the Justice League or whatever cute nickname they're using for their war council this week, and there are more than a few new faces this time around. A dark-haired girl in a leather jacket. Another in leather hot pants. A man with shaggy hair and a suit, a blind man's cane between his legs. And so on and so forth. Dean's word is getting out, their numbers swelling, but it's still not enough. They're still losing the war, and unless something biblical happens, it's likely none of them will live to see next month, if they even make it that far.
He sighs, turning away from the group, and lets his eyes and attentions drift, still waiting on the phone and trying to put thoughts of the inevitable apocalypse behind him. It works for the briefest of instants, everything distant, his mind blank, and then he spots the salt line on the floor in front of the door to the kitchen. It should be nothing out of the ordinary, but it's been disturbed, tiny smeared paw prints cutting a line through otherwise perfect white. It's probably nothing, assuming you're not a health inspector, but it's enough to set the hair at the back of his neck on ends.
( A room full of hunters in the middle of a war, and there's a hole in the proverbial barbed wire. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1138
Notes: Ruby is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ilove_atallman, Faith is msattentionspan, Mohinder is i_wasmistaken, Dean is hasperkynipples and all are used without permission but with love. Bennet is no_crosswordfan and is all mine to use and abuse. Not binding on the verse, because Sylar ... really has no means of knowing Ruby or Faith or knowing about the knife, even all things considered, but ... this scene has been kicking around in my head for a couple of days, so.
Bennet looks at him oddly, shrugging when whatever momentary hesitations he has passes, and gestures him behind the bar to the phone on the wall. Sylar offers him a thin smile and slips behind the counter top, pressing one shoulder into the wall to lean there as he picks up the phone and dials. It starts ringing immediately, but the pick up on the other end isn't so quick, and he shifts a bit, looking out over the group as they assemble, drifting in in ones and twos and immediately finding seats to settle.
It's the second meeting of the Midnight Society or the Justice League or whatever cute nickname they're using for their war council this week, and there are more than a few new faces this time around. A dark-haired girl in a leather jacket. Another in leather hot pants. A man with shaggy hair and a suit, a blind man's cane between his legs. And so on and so forth. Dean's word is getting out, their numbers swelling, but it's still not enough. They're still losing the war, and unless something biblical happens, it's likely none of them will live to see next month, if they even make it that far.
He sighs, turning away from the group, and lets his eyes and attentions drift, still waiting on the phone and trying to put thoughts of the inevitable apocalypse behind him. It works for the briefest of instants, everything distant, his mind blank, and then he spots the salt line on the floor in front of the door to the kitchen. It should be nothing out of the ordinary, but it's been disturbed, tiny smeared paw prints cutting a line through otherwise perfect white. It's probably nothing, assuming you're not a health inspector, but it's enough to set the hair at the back of his neck on ends.
( A room full of hunters in the middle of a war, and there's a hole in the proverbial barbed wire. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1138
Notes: Ruby is
ilove_atallman, Faith is msattentionspan, Mohinder is i_wasmistaken, Dean is hasperkynipples and all are used without permission but with love. Bennet is no_crosswordfan and is all mine to use and abuse. Not binding on the verse, because Sylar ... really has no means of knowing Ruby or Faith or knowing about the knife, even all things considered, but ... this scene has been kicking around in my head for a couple of days, so.for writer's block table: angry
Jan. 22nd, 2011 03:46 pmIn spite of his ability, useful from time to time to understand the whys of human behavior, and Lydia's, borrowed from her before her untimely death, Sylar found there were still days where he just didn't understand Mohinder. Mira was out of the picture, Molly more or less the same, his relationship with her broken in ways even he couldn't see to fix, and they were together now, everything that had kept them apart in the first place either behind them or something they were working on. They could have gone anywhere, back to New York to wade through the mess Claire had left in the wake of jumping off the Ferris Wheel all those months ago, or somewhere else, avoiding it all to see the world on Bob Bishop's dime, and yet Mohinder refused. He had some obsessive need to stay here in India and cling to his normal life, to teach, and some days he couldn't understand it.
There were other days where he could, of course, knowing that Mohinder's family was here, that the ghost of his father still clung to every word in every ridiculous little syllabus he wrote up for his classes, that he was still holding out hope that he could repair his relationship with Molly, but today was not one of those days. Today, he had no real handle on why Mohinder had chosen a handful of bored students in a boiling classroom over him, and it was frustrating. The fact that he'd been growing steadily more restless over the last few weeks didn't make it any easier, nor did the fact that the Indian was gone now, not teaching but still busy with some stupid commitment he had at the university.
( He bit back a growl at the thought, moving away from where he'd been pacing to throw himself down in the chair behind Mohinder's makeshift desk. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1672
There were other days where he could, of course, knowing that Mohinder's family was here, that the ghost of his father still clung to every word in every ridiculous little syllabus he wrote up for his classes, that he was still holding out hope that he could repair his relationship with Molly, but today was not one of those days. Today, he had no real handle on why Mohinder had chosen a handful of bored students in a boiling classroom over him, and it was frustrating. The fact that he'd been growing steadily more restless over the last few weeks didn't make it any easier, nor did the fact that the Indian was gone now, not teaching but still busy with some stupid commitment he had at the university.
( He bit back a growl at the thought, moving away from where he'd been pacing to throw himself down in the chair behind Mohinder's makeshift desk. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1672
Something shatters downstairs.
The sound is faint, not a window breaking but a cup, but it's enough to cut through the haze of faint awareness he's been floating in for the last few days and drag him gasping into full alertness. He lays there for a moment, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to wrap his head around the sound and the odd, displaced feeling that comes with waking up somewhere you can't remember ever being, and then there's another crash from downstairs. He sits up abruptly, glaring holes in the twilight of the room, straining to listen.
He hears voices but nothing else, not even with his hearing, his focus shot to hell and wrapped in cotton, but it's enough to put him on edge. He can remember Samuel now and everything move he's made against them since he and Claire walked out of that damnable carnival, and he's quick to assume that they're under attack again. The barker has sent his cronies after them or come himself again, and he won't stand for it.
He moves to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and winces once he manages, teeth gritting, his muscles crying out from months and months of disuse. He ignores the pain, however, not even sure why it hurts in the first place, and staggers to his feet, a hand going to the nightstand to steady himself. And once he feels certain enough standing, he lets go, pushing away to move towards the door.
He gets exactly three steps away before the IV line tugs at his hand, and the shock of it is enough to send him off balance. He sprawls to the floor gracelessly, a snarl on his lips, and the voices downstairs stop abruptly.
A long, tense moment follows and then the sound of someone coming up the stairs chases the silence away. The door opens cautiously a moment later, and Peter pokes his head in, backlit by strange, flickering light. When he steps into the room, he realizes it's coming from the flames lapping harmlessly at his fingertips. He hums, amused, and tries to drag himself to his feet again.
"Whoa, hey." Peter is by his side in an instant, the fire at his hand dying suddenly, and wraps his arms around his waist. He doesn't even try to claw his way free as Peter hauls him back up to the bed. "Take it easy. You've been out of it for awhile."
Confused, he stares at Peter, trying to work out what the hell he means by that, and it all filters back to him slowly, a chill creeping up his spine as each snippet of memory returns. Giving Peter his original ability back. Passing out afterward. All of it. He opens his mouth to ask the other man just how long it's been, but he misses his chance, Peter sliding away from him to rush towards the door.
He pushes it open widely, yelling down the stairs, "Claire! He's awake!"
And Sylar can't help the stab of annoyance that follows when he realizes he must have been out of play for quite some time.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 526
Note: Pretty sure the ex isn't stalking me and my muses anymore, so ... Peter ishadtobeahero and all mine to use and abuse.
The sound is faint, not a window breaking but a cup, but it's enough to cut through the haze of faint awareness he's been floating in for the last few days and drag him gasping into full alertness. He lays there for a moment, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to wrap his head around the sound and the odd, displaced feeling that comes with waking up somewhere you can't remember ever being, and then there's another crash from downstairs. He sits up abruptly, glaring holes in the twilight of the room, straining to listen.
He hears voices but nothing else, not even with his hearing, his focus shot to hell and wrapped in cotton, but it's enough to put him on edge. He can remember Samuel now and everything move he's made against them since he and Claire walked out of that damnable carnival, and he's quick to assume that they're under attack again. The barker has sent his cronies after them or come himself again, and he won't stand for it.
He moves to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and winces once he manages, teeth gritting, his muscles crying out from months and months of disuse. He ignores the pain, however, not even sure why it hurts in the first place, and staggers to his feet, a hand going to the nightstand to steady himself. And once he feels certain enough standing, he lets go, pushing away to move towards the door.
He gets exactly three steps away before the IV line tugs at his hand, and the shock of it is enough to send him off balance. He sprawls to the floor gracelessly, a snarl on his lips, and the voices downstairs stop abruptly.
A long, tense moment follows and then the sound of someone coming up the stairs chases the silence away. The door opens cautiously a moment later, and Peter pokes his head in, backlit by strange, flickering light. When he steps into the room, he realizes it's coming from the flames lapping harmlessly at his fingertips. He hums, amused, and tries to drag himself to his feet again.
"Whoa, hey." Peter is by his side in an instant, the fire at his hand dying suddenly, and wraps his arms around his waist. He doesn't even try to claw his way free as Peter hauls him back up to the bed. "Take it easy. You've been out of it for awhile."
Confused, he stares at Peter, trying to work out what the hell he means by that, and it all filters back to him slowly, a chill creeping up his spine as each snippet of memory returns. Giving Peter his original ability back. Passing out afterward. All of it. He opens his mouth to ask the other man just how long it's been, but he misses his chance, Peter sliding away from him to rush towards the door.
He pushes it open widely, yelling down the stairs, "Claire! He's awake!"
And Sylar can't help the stab of annoyance that follows when he realizes he must have been out of play for quite some time.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 526
Note: Pretty sure the ex isn't stalking me and my muses anymore, so ... Peter is
hadtobeahero and all mine to use and abuse.ooc: fic table
Dec. 2nd, 2010 12:58 amIn an effort to get over my writer's block and get some writing done, I'm taking on this table. I'm going to try and get every prompt done, though it'll likely take me awhile -- given that there's three hundred prompts here -- and will probably span all of my verses. Each fic will also likely be more than a hundred words, even though I think this was meant to be a drabble challenge, since I'm terrible at keeping to a specific word count. I'll try to work in as many of the fic ideas you all suggested earlier into this, too.
Table courtesy ofkeep_them_safe.
( the table )
Table courtesy of
keep_them_safe.( the table )
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babylonwoodfor the_muses_stage: surprise
Sep. 6th, 2010 06:11 pmTime ground to a halt around him, and he took a moment to savor the stillness of it all. For as long as he had had Nakamura's ability now, for all that he'd abused the ability to rewind the clock or simply be somewhere else, he'd never actually bothered to just stop time. There just hadn't been time, and as he finally forced himself into action and moved down the hallway, he couldn't stop the ghost of a smile from creeping onto his lips, the irony not lost on him.
He paused again, outside the door, and picked the lock so he could let himself into the apartment. Sunlight streaming in through the window in the kitchen swirled around his legs as he moved through it, and he chanced a backwards glance at the errant rays of light, watching as they settled into odd peaks and whorls, unable to settle naturally with the seconds frozen as they were. His smile grew -- he'd have to try this again back at the watch shop, just to see what the dust in the back rooms he hadn't bothered to touch did -- and he turned back, heading further into the apartment, back towards his childhood bedroom.
( He stopped as stone still as anything else in the apartment at the sight of his mother, understandably some years younger than he remembered her, forever making her way out of his bedroom. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 883
He paused again, outside the door, and picked the lock so he could let himself into the apartment. Sunlight streaming in through the window in the kitchen swirled around his legs as he moved through it, and he chanced a backwards glance at the errant rays of light, watching as they settled into odd peaks and whorls, unable to settle naturally with the seconds frozen as they were. His smile grew -- he'd have to try this again back at the watch shop, just to see what the dust in the back rooms he hadn't bothered to touch did -- and he turned back, heading further into the apartment, back towards his childhood bedroom.
( He stopped as stone still as anything else in the apartment at the sight of his mother, understandably some years younger than he remembered her, forever making her way out of his bedroom. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 883
The note on the door had been three simple words (on the roof) and he'd followed them and Peter's scent, heading up countless flights of stairs to find him sitting on the half-wall that ran the length of the edge. He stood there for a long time, motionless and clearly unnoticed, watching him, and then finally crossed the distance to meet him, making enough noise to draw attention to himself. Peter half-turned to glance back at him, though he did not smile -- possibly because the first words out of Sylar's mouth were unhappy ones.
"You don't want me in your apartment."
He shook his head. "It's not like that, it's just ... rooftops seem to be kinda big thing for us. It felt right, you know?"
It wasn't a lie, not so much that it sent tiny shock waves down his spine as the words tripped his ability to discern them, but there was something about the way he could hear Peter's heart rate climb slowly that made him wonder. He tilted his head to one side, sifting through the empath's surface thoughts, but all he came back with was a smattering of memories of the things that had happened in places like this. Union Wells. Peter's conversation with Nathan, with him, before he'd let his hand slip out of Peter's and fell to true, final death. A snippet of one of their talks on the roof of his own apartment building when they'd been stuck in his head.
He frowned faintly, wanting to press deeper, but Peter had been on the receiving end of telepathy so many times he doubted he'd get much more without the other man yelling at him to get out of his head, and with the faint lines of tension he could read in the way Peter sat and under the surface of his thoughts, he decided not to press it. This was not the thoughtless, relieved meeting of the other night, nor was it just another day of the near perfect state of sync being trapped in his subconscious had gifted them. Peter was nervous, uncertain as to how to act around him, and if he was being honest, he wasn't sure he was much better.
( He forced himself to sit down on the edge of the roof next to him and shifted to face him. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1461
Note: Peter ishadtobeahero and is used with permission.
"You don't want me in your apartment."
He shook his head. "It's not like that, it's just ... rooftops seem to be kinda big thing for us. It felt right, you know?"
It wasn't a lie, not so much that it sent tiny shock waves down his spine as the words tripped his ability to discern them, but there was something about the way he could hear Peter's heart rate climb slowly that made him wonder. He tilted his head to one side, sifting through the empath's surface thoughts, but all he came back with was a smattering of memories of the things that had happened in places like this. Union Wells. Peter's conversation with Nathan, with him, before he'd let his hand slip out of Peter's and fell to true, final death. A snippet of one of their talks on the roof of his own apartment building when they'd been stuck in his head.
He frowned faintly, wanting to press deeper, but Peter had been on the receiving end of telepathy so many times he doubted he'd get much more without the other man yelling at him to get out of his head, and with the faint lines of tension he could read in the way Peter sat and under the surface of his thoughts, he decided not to press it. This was not the thoughtless, relieved meeting of the other night, nor was it just another day of the near perfect state of sync being trapped in his subconscious had gifted them. Peter was nervous, uncertain as to how to act around him, and if he was being honest, he wasn't sure he was much better.
( He forced himself to sit down on the edge of the roof next to him and shifted to face him. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1461
Note: Peter is
hadtobeahero and is used with permission.Considering her ability, it really hadn't surprised him that Angela hadn't come to the door. He was disappointed maybe, given the trouble he'd gone to putting on Peter's face especially for her, but he wasn't surprised. He only wondered if she knew who he was bringing with him and what she was capable of. He wanted something out of this beyond her ability and her head on a stick, and it really wouldn't be any fun at all if Angela knew all about the ace he had up his sleeve, too.
Sighing, he cast Gabriella a sideways glance and leaned into the door, pantomiming the use of a key while he picked the lock, and let them in. The door closed on its own behind them, Sylar unwilling to turn to close it manually on the off chance that Angie had set up an ambush in the foyer. There was nothing, however, the house apparently silent and dark, save for the lines of prying mid-morning sun that crept in through ornate security doors, and he frowned. She could have at least had the decency to be waiting for them when they came in. He supposed, though, that that was Angela for you -- a bitch to a fault, even when her fate was sealed.
He moved towards the stairs at the other end of the room, leaning on the banister as his eyes wandered up the spiral staircase.
"Angela," he sing-songed sweetly, not bothering to trade out Peter's voice for his own. Knowing it was him or not, he could just imagine the look on her face -- the look of horrified betrayal -- when he killed her wearing the face of her sole surviving son. He would have smiled at the thought, too, if the bitch would just give some indication of where she was.
Oh, well. It had been such a long time since he'd had a proper hunt.
Turning away from the stairs, he looked first to the front door again, the locks on it and everywhere else in the house snapping shut in unison with an ominious click, then raised his eyes to Gabriella. Finally, slowly, he offered her a wicked grin. "Guess she wants to play hide and seek."
Sighing, he cast Gabriella a sideways glance and leaned into the door, pantomiming the use of a key while he picked the lock, and let them in. The door closed on its own behind them, Sylar unwilling to turn to close it manually on the off chance that Angie had set up an ambush in the foyer. There was nothing, however, the house apparently silent and dark, save for the lines of prying mid-morning sun that crept in through ornate security doors, and he frowned. She could have at least had the decency to be waiting for them when they came in. He supposed, though, that that was Angela for you -- a bitch to a fault, even when her fate was sealed.
He moved towards the stairs at the other end of the room, leaning on the banister as his eyes wandered up the spiral staircase.
"Angela," he sing-songed sweetly, not bothering to trade out Peter's voice for his own. Knowing it was him or not, he could just imagine the look on her face -- the look of horrified betrayal -- when he killed her wearing the face of her sole surviving son. He would have smiled at the thought, too, if the bitch would just give some indication of where she was.
Oh, well. It had been such a long time since he'd had a proper hunt.
Turning away from the stairs, he looked first to the front door again, the locks on it and everywhere else in the house snapping shut in unison with an ominious click, then raised his eyes to Gabriella. Finally, slowly, he offered her a wicked grin. "Guess she wants to play hide and seek."
for mad_muses: dominance
Aug. 23rd, 2010 01:43 amThe spotlights, in their half-circle around the chair he'd bolted in the center of the room, sprung to life abruptly, as if on some kind of timer, and from his place in the shadows beyond the circle of light, Sylar grinned.
He'd chained Mohinder to that very same chair some weeks ago, drugged him, and left him there, watching. He'd lost a startling amount of weight, Sylar conveniently forgetting to feed him more often than not, and whatever infection he'd inflicted upon himself while crusading for a way to give abilities had only gotten worse. The scales that had spread to his face had all but consumed his eyebrows now and although he hadn't touched his blood -- something about him smelled too wrong, too sick-sweet to be appetizing -- he was disturbingly pale. And now, under the bright, hot white of the spotlights, he was writhing, pained, twisting against the chains Sylar had left him in the first time he'd come down here as if he could somehow escape.
Sylar let it go on for a moment, then spread his fingers wide, and the lights snapped off as quickly as they had come on. Mohinder stopped struggling almost immediately, his head dropping forward onto his chest. He wasn't dead, though, wasn't unconscious, the rattle of breath through his lungs far too unsteady for that, and Sylar was oddly pleased and disappointed all in one. It would have been a joy to kill him, but he had his reasons for keeping him alive.
Sighing, he moved across the room, fingers hooking around the back of another chair as he passed it, and dragged it over to the geneticist. He sat down, draping his arms over the back of it, and contented himself to watching him, waiting for Mohinder to realize that he was no longer alone. It didn't take long, though it was just a flicker of dread in his heartbeat, his head never raising from where he'd lowered it.
( "Please." )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1080
Note: The use of Mohinder is not directed at any specific journal.
He'd chained Mohinder to that very same chair some weeks ago, drugged him, and left him there, watching. He'd lost a startling amount of weight, Sylar conveniently forgetting to feed him more often than not, and whatever infection he'd inflicted upon himself while crusading for a way to give abilities had only gotten worse. The scales that had spread to his face had all but consumed his eyebrows now and although he hadn't touched his blood -- something about him smelled too wrong, too sick-sweet to be appetizing -- he was disturbingly pale. And now, under the bright, hot white of the spotlights, he was writhing, pained, twisting against the chains Sylar had left him in the first time he'd come down here as if he could somehow escape.
Sylar let it go on for a moment, then spread his fingers wide, and the lights snapped off as quickly as they had come on. Mohinder stopped struggling almost immediately, his head dropping forward onto his chest. He wasn't dead, though, wasn't unconscious, the rattle of breath through his lungs far too unsteady for that, and Sylar was oddly pleased and disappointed all in one. It would have been a joy to kill him, but he had his reasons for keeping him alive.
Sighing, he moved across the room, fingers hooking around the back of another chair as he passed it, and dragged it over to the geneticist. He sat down, draping his arms over the back of it, and contented himself to watching him, waiting for Mohinder to realize that he was no longer alone. It didn't take long, though it was just a flicker of dread in his heartbeat, his head never raising from where he'd lowered it.
( "Please." )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1080
Note: The use of Mohinder is not directed at any specific journal.
To say that things were currently awkward between Sylar and Claire was putting things rather mildly. It was more of a question of who was more awkward at the moment. They had gotten to a point of having conversations, particularly in the morning, over a cup of coffee, while waiting for the rest of the Carnival to wake up so that they could start their day. They had even taken to talking at night before falling asleep.
In other words, they had fallen into an almost-easy companionship till the night of the eclipse.
With the fact that they had come very close to going further than cuddling and sleeping beside each other, there was new tension in their tiny trailer and between them. Claire had thought about pursuing the idea of her own trailer once more but the question never came up whenever she saw Samuel. Strangely enough, she found ways to conveniently forget till she was faced with Sylar and the silence again.
Tonight was such the case as they sat manning the Ferris Wheel. Sitting on a box by the controls, she leaned back against the fence while glancing sideways at her counterpart again. Sometimes she wished that he would say something -- even if it was something just to piss her off -- because she hadn't figured out anything as of yet.
He didn't, however -- or at least not immediately. Instead, he busied himself with the control panel under his fingers, picking at a silver of old, peeling masking tape that had stubbornly refused to part with the metal when whoever it was had peeled the rest of it off, pointedly ignoring her. Where his refusal to look at her had had something to do with awkwardness at first, in those days that had followed their near tumble into bed, his reasoning had taken a slow slide to something more familiar in the weeks that followed.
( Awkwardness had turned to rage and he was furious. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 2045
In other words, they had fallen into an almost-easy companionship till the night of the eclipse.
With the fact that they had come very close to going further than cuddling and sleeping beside each other, there was new tension in their tiny trailer and between them. Claire had thought about pursuing the idea of her own trailer once more but the question never came up whenever she saw Samuel. Strangely enough, she found ways to conveniently forget till she was faced with Sylar and the silence again.
Tonight was such the case as they sat manning the Ferris Wheel. Sitting on a box by the controls, she leaned back against the fence while glancing sideways at her counterpart again. Sometimes she wished that he would say something -- even if it was something just to piss her off -- because she hadn't figured out anything as of yet.
He didn't, however -- or at least not immediately. Instead, he busied himself with the control panel under his fingers, picking at a silver of old, peeling masking tape that had stubbornly refused to part with the metal when whoever it was had peeled the rest of it off, pointedly ignoring her. Where his refusal to look at her had had something to do with awkwardness at first, in those days that had followed their near tumble into bed, his reasoning had taken a slow slide to something more familiar in the weeks that followed.
( Awkwardness had turned to rage and he was furious. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 2045
He'd stolen the snow globe.
It was probably evil, he knew -- not as bad as murder, of course, but along the same lines, him coveting and then taking whatever he thought he needed -- but when he had seen the thing, alone and neglected in the gift shop at his and Mohinder's latest destination, he found he couldn't help himself. It was ugly and cheap, made of plastic and painted in ridiculous day-glo paint, but it had instantly reminded him of his mother.
He'd thought about buying it for whatever reason, then decided against it, not entirely keen on explaining his choice of souvenirs to Mohinder when he asked -- and he would ask -- and set it back down on the shelf he'd gotten it from. He'd backed away, moved off to pursue more expensive baubles while waiting for Mohinder to find his way back from the sorry excuse for a men's room, and somehow, inexplicably, he had ended back in front of the damn row of snow globes, drawn to them as surely as he'd been drawn to Mohinder in the first place. And in a split decision, he'd slipped one into his day bag, bought something random from the gift shop just to avoid suspicion, then made his way outside casually.
It hadn't been hard, taking what didn't belong to him still almost second nature, even if this was a far cry from killing for abilities, and he hadn't really thought much about it at the time. He'd wanted it, wanted to avoid questions, and a little shoplifting wasn't going to hurt anyone. Now, though, sitting at the table in his and Mohinder's hotel room, the snow globe sitting neatly in front of him, he wasn't so sure. It was such a small thing, inconsequential really, even for how ridiculously overpriced it had been, but ...
What would his mother think, were she still alive, to know that he'd just taken something that reminded him of her? What would Peter think? Did he really, truly particularly care?
Making a face at ridiculous little thing, he pushed it away telekinetically and leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest like a petulant child.
It was probably evil, he knew -- not as bad as murder, of course, but along the same lines, him coveting and then taking whatever he thought he needed -- but when he had seen the thing, alone and neglected in the gift shop at his and Mohinder's latest destination, he found he couldn't help himself. It was ugly and cheap, made of plastic and painted in ridiculous day-glo paint, but it had instantly reminded him of his mother.
He'd thought about buying it for whatever reason, then decided against it, not entirely keen on explaining his choice of souvenirs to Mohinder when he asked -- and he would ask -- and set it back down on the shelf he'd gotten it from. He'd backed away, moved off to pursue more expensive baubles while waiting for Mohinder to find his way back from the sorry excuse for a men's room, and somehow, inexplicably, he had ended back in front of the damn row of snow globes, drawn to them as surely as he'd been drawn to Mohinder in the first place. And in a split decision, he'd slipped one into his day bag, bought something random from the gift shop just to avoid suspicion, then made his way outside casually.
It hadn't been hard, taking what didn't belong to him still almost second nature, even if this was a far cry from killing for abilities, and he hadn't really thought much about it at the time. He'd wanted it, wanted to avoid questions, and a little shoplifting wasn't going to hurt anyone. Now, though, sitting at the table in his and Mohinder's hotel room, the snow globe sitting neatly in front of him, he wasn't so sure. It was such a small thing, inconsequential really, even for how ridiculously overpriced it had been, but ...
What would his mother think, were she still alive, to know that he'd just taken something that reminded him of her? What would Peter think? Did he really, truly particularly care?
Making a face at ridiculous little thing, he pushed it away telekinetically and leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest like a petulant child.
(no subject)
Jul. 27th, 2010 04:40 pmNot the best picture in the world, but then again, it was a stupid hairstyle.
( The faux-hawk, for everyone who was interested. )
( The faux-hawk, for everyone who was interested. )
for mad_muses: driven
Jul. 21st, 2010 05:27 pmThe dirt crept in from all corners of the tiny stockroom, alive and angry, whipping around him with enough force to strip skin from bone. He threw up a hand, not quite sure whether he was trying to throw Samuel out of the room, break whatever hold he had over the filth, or to shield his face, but either way, it wasn't quite enough. The sting persisted, the air moving too fast to gather enough breath for a yell of pain, and then the world slid out from under him.
He woke up what felt like hours later, eyes opening to the sight of familiar delicate rice paper dividers, separating his part of the upstairs loft of Sullivan's from the rest of the world. He shifted, pulling himself into a sit, and the dividers shifted aside as if on cue, Lydia entering from one of the other rooms, her hips rolling seductively with every step. He let her move to him and she knelt down on the bed next to him, fingers brushing over renewed flesh with interest.
Careful touches became something more, broken by swatches of dialogue -- he was broken (lonely) and she could see it all -- and in the interim, when his lips were on hers, he claimed her power as his own. It wasn't that hard really, much easier than borrowing Elle's ability had been, but wanting to prove her wrong nevertheless, he closed her fingers around her throat. And despite her claims that he'd lost something vital over the last few months, that murderous spark, he could still feel her fear.
( On any other day, he might have smiled; now, though, he just recoiled away from her and the truth, gathered what little clothing she'd managed to strip from him, and moved out of the room. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 995
Note: Samuel isoffering_hope and all mine to use and abuse. Lydia is youneed_tosee and is used with love and permission. And, for the record, the carnival is a biker bar in this verse.
He woke up what felt like hours later, eyes opening to the sight of familiar delicate rice paper dividers, separating his part of the upstairs loft of Sullivan's from the rest of the world. He shifted, pulling himself into a sit, and the dividers shifted aside as if on cue, Lydia entering from one of the other rooms, her hips rolling seductively with every step. He let her move to him and she knelt down on the bed next to him, fingers brushing over renewed flesh with interest.
Careful touches became something more, broken by swatches of dialogue -- he was broken (lonely) and she could see it all -- and in the interim, when his lips were on hers, he claimed her power as his own. It wasn't that hard really, much easier than borrowing Elle's ability had been, but wanting to prove her wrong nevertheless, he closed her fingers around her throat. And despite her claims that he'd lost something vital over the last few months, that murderous spark, he could still feel her fear.
( On any other day, he might have smiled; now, though, he just recoiled away from her and the truth, gathered what little clothing she'd managed to strip from him, and moved out of the room. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 995
Note: Samuel is
offering_hope and all mine to use and abuse. Lydia is youneed_tosee and is used with love and permission. And, for the record, the carnival is a biker bar in this verse.for the_muses_stage: victory
Jul. 17th, 2010 02:30 pmHe could hear them moving down the hallway. Not that the Haitian was ever particularly loud, not much of a talker and quite possibly better at the whole stealth game than he was, but Elle was making a show of things, babbling loudly to him, her voice echoing down the corridor as they moved towards him.
Any other time, he supposed it might have made a guy suspicious -- why talk so loud if you weren't trying to signal someone else you were on the way? -- but he thought it worked rather well here. Elle was the hysterical near-widow, after all, and fear or worry or whatever stew of emotions she was supposed to be marinating in had a tendency to change the quality of one's voice. He'd heard it enough times when one of his victims bothered trying to beg him for mercy.
Dimly amused, he turned his chair away from the door and sunk down in it, stretching out until he was sure his head couldn't be seen over the top of the leather. The door swung open just seconds later.
( Elle cleared her throat. "Can you just wait here for a minute? I think I need something to drink." )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1225
Note: Elle isnot_myfirstday and is used with love. The use of the Haitian is not directed at any specific journal.
Any other time, he supposed it might have made a guy suspicious -- why talk so loud if you weren't trying to signal someone else you were on the way? -- but he thought it worked rather well here. Elle was the hysterical near-widow, after all, and fear or worry or whatever stew of emotions she was supposed to be marinating in had a tendency to change the quality of one's voice. He'd heard it enough times when one of his victims bothered trying to beg him for mercy.
Dimly amused, he turned his chair away from the door and sunk down in it, stretching out until he was sure his head couldn't be seen over the top of the leather. The door swung open just seconds later.
( Elle cleared her throat. "Can you just wait here for a minute? I think I need something to drink." )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1225
Note: Elle is
not_myfirstday and is used with love. The use of the Haitian is not directed at any specific journal.for mad_muses: warm
Jun. 27th, 2010 03:00 pmTheir hostile takeover had taken much longer than he had thought it would. Arthur had too damn many people working for him, far more than those they'd managed to trap on the first floor, and at least a quarter of them had wanted to resist the new management. Then he and Elle had had to take care of them, which had taken time in spite of the new tricks he'd picked up from his supposed father earlier that evening. Then they'd had to make examples of a few more that hadn't been part of the rebellion, just to drive home the idea that they could suffer the same fate as those they'd killed, if and when they got any bright ideas or when he and Elle got bored. Then he'd had to take care of Mohinder -- oh, he'd taken such pleasure in drugging up and chaining down the geneticist. Then --
Well, the list went on and on, really, and it had been near dawn by the time they'd finished. And now, sitting at Arthur's desk with the purple-gray light of the new dawn poking through the slats of the blinds behind him, exhaustion was starting to sink in. Funny how he seemed to remember being able to stay awake for days on end and yet could barely keep his eyes open now. Then again, though, he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept, barring the odd period of unconsciousness he'd experienced after trying to fix Elle after she'd come back battered.
Making a face regardless, he sunk further down into the chair and closed his eyes. God, he was tired and the fact that it seemed unnaturally warm in the room wasn't helping. He pressed a hand to his forehead, hoping that the chill that had washed over him earlier would help with the heat -- it didn't, if anything making it worse -- then dropped his hand back into his lap. He cracked one eye, chancing a glance at Elle.
"Is it me, or is it warm in here?" It was a stupid question, if the way she was stretched out on the desk, one cheek pressed to the wood was any indication.
( "It's hot," she muttered, haggardly. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 882
Note: Elle isnot_myfirstday and is used without permission but with love.
Well, the list went on and on, really, and it had been near dawn by the time they'd finished. And now, sitting at Arthur's desk with the purple-gray light of the new dawn poking through the slats of the blinds behind him, exhaustion was starting to sink in. Funny how he seemed to remember being able to stay awake for days on end and yet could barely keep his eyes open now. Then again, though, he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept, barring the odd period of unconsciousness he'd experienced after trying to fix Elle after she'd come back battered.
Making a face regardless, he sunk further down into the chair and closed his eyes. God, he was tired and the fact that it seemed unnaturally warm in the room wasn't helping. He pressed a hand to his forehead, hoping that the chill that had washed over him earlier would help with the heat -- it didn't, if anything making it worse -- then dropped his hand back into his lap. He cracked one eye, chancing a glance at Elle.
"Is it me, or is it warm in here?" It was a stupid question, if the way she was stretched out on the desk, one cheek pressed to the wood was any indication.
( "It's hot," she muttered, haggardly. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 882
Note: Elle is
not_myfirstday and is used without permission but with love.for whack_a_muse: play the part
Jun. 27th, 2010 12:50 pmOnly an idiot would have missed the fact that the space between the mirrors made Mohinder uneasy, and after what he had experienced weeks ago under the effects of his blood, he couldn't say he blamed him. Darkness spread out in front of them, broken only by odd shafts of weak light that bled in from the mirrors on either side of them, forming a sort of makeshift corridor. While neither of them were particularly bothered by the dark, however, this was more than just a few measly shadows. This was absolute. Sound and scent dropped off after a few feet, swallowed up by unsettling silence and stale air. Darkness gave way to more inky black no matter how good your eyes were. And so on and so forth until it made even the monster that Mohinder had become flighty.
He supposed if he weren't master of this place, it would make him uneasy, too. Instead he simply flashed the geneticist a sly smile and started moving down the hallway nonchalantly. Mohinder followed after him, peeking into the fragments of other people's lives they could see through the mirrors as they passed.
He let him have his moment of idle interest before he spoke. "I have something I want to show you."
Mohinder allowed him a thin smile, his eyes dancing away from the bedroom he'd been looking into and over to him. "So I gathered. Should I ask what?"
"It's a surprise," he answered cryptically, leading them past a few more mirrors. He stopped in front of one in particular, stood in front of it, looking more than pleased with himself, then took a step out of the way. "And here we are."
( Pushing past him, Mohinder looked in on the room blasely, either not expecting anything of real interest or just wanting to get this over as quickly as possible so they could escape the twilight and go back to the real world. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 655
Note: Mohinder iscapableof_both and is used without permission but with love.
He supposed if he weren't master of this place, it would make him uneasy, too. Instead he simply flashed the geneticist a sly smile and started moving down the hallway nonchalantly. Mohinder followed after him, peeking into the fragments of other people's lives they could see through the mirrors as they passed.
He let him have his moment of idle interest before he spoke. "I have something I want to show you."
Mohinder allowed him a thin smile, his eyes dancing away from the bedroom he'd been looking into and over to him. "So I gathered. Should I ask what?"
"It's a surprise," he answered cryptically, leading them past a few more mirrors. He stopped in front of one in particular, stood in front of it, looking more than pleased with himself, then took a step out of the way. "And here we are."
( Pushing past him, Mohinder looked in on the room blasely, either not expecting anything of real interest or just wanting to get this over as quickly as possible so they could escape the twilight and go back to the real world. )
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 655
Note: Mohinder is
capableof_both and is used without permission but with love.
