Sylar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heroslayer) wrote2011-01-22 03:46 pm
heroslayer) wrote2011-01-22 03:46 pm
for writer's block table: angry
In 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. He sprawled in it, stretching out, his head falling back, and stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts just as uneasy as he was, chasing pointless, fractured circles in his head endlessly, each broken train of thought starting and ending with Mohinder and the fact that he'd left him for his father's research. He didn't bother to swallow the sound of his discontent a second time, and he straightened, leaning forward to look over the mess of papers Mohinder had left on the desk, half-tempted to destroy them all.
Some dim, rational thought stopped him before he got that far, and he pushed back to his feet, moving away from the desk and back towards the windows. Rather than wheel back towards the desk and begin his pacing anew, however, he just stood there for a moment, staring out into the afternoon heat, then stalked towards the door hurriedly, suddenly possessed. He needed to get out. Take a walk. Do something, rather than just sitting there, half-stir crazy, until finding ways to shred Mohinder's normal life became a valid idea and not just a passing fancy.
Pausing outside the door, he winced as heat and light assaulted him, and took a moment to let his eyes adjust, rolling up his shirtsleeves in the interim. He thought briefly about going back inside to change his shirt, then decided he didn't have the patience for it, and shuffled away from the house and down through the streets, his disquiet and the senseless, slow-burning anger under it rolling off him in waves, forcing people away from him, subconsciously terrified. He couldn't help but grin wolfishly when he noticed. At least some things never changed.
Still smirking, he slunk through the streets, occasionally pausing to intentionally terrorize someone -- it was amazing what a couple of hungry looks or following someone a few blocks could do -- though sooner rather than later he'd reached the edges of the city as he knew it. There was more to Chennai than this, of course, but he'd never really been beyond this point, either with Mohinder or without, the city branching out into filthy slums that refused to disappear even though it had been more than fire years since the tsunami that had created them in the first place. Considering the mood he was in, however, he only hesitated for a moment or two before crossing the invisible barrier between the civilized world and the jungle of crumbling buildings and stinking shacks that choked the road.
He'd gotten about a block into them -- or so he assumed, though it was hard to tell when the pavement had so abruptly ended -- when a voice called out from behind him. "Hey. Tourist."
He cast a glance over his shoulder, rolled his eyes at the pack of boys that stood behind him, and then turned to face them. Whatever good playing cat and mouse with a few of the natives had done for his mental state evaporated abruptly. "What?"
Their leader waved the polycarbonate staff -- a lathi, as he'd heard Mohinder call it once when they'd show up in the news in the hands of a squad of policemen -- he'd been leaning on at him. "You don't belong here. Bad things happen to tourists here." He paused, drumming the iron tip of the staff against the ground. "Maybe if you give us your wallet, nothing bad will happen to you."
Sylar made a soft, unimpressed noise, and turned away from the group. He didn't have time for muggers back in New York; he sure as hell didn't have time for them now. "Screw you."
He'd managed to get a handful of steps away when the lathi came down on his shoulder, driving him to his knees. He cried out, feeling something shatter, and closed his eyes tightly for a moment, trying to block out the pain as it burned white hot lines on the insides of his eyelids. Then, slowly, he rolled his shoulder, wincing as it snapped back into place, and opened his eyes, looking back at the boys furiously, sharp pain becoming molten, mindless fury.
They seemed stunned, frozen -- they'd seen his shoulder go from obviously broken to perfectly fine, even though his shirt -- and he pounced on that, reaching out to curl his fingers around the lathi sharply. It broke in two where he had touched it, and it never occurred to him to think that that shouldn't have been possible, that it was polycarbonate and he just didn't have the strength. He didn't think at all, instead getting to his feet sharply, his other hand wrapping around the part of the staff the boy was still clinging to to tear it, snarling, from his hands.
The other boys bolted, but not the leader. He was still stuck in place, staring at him in horror, and Sylar grinned horrifically at him, hefting one end of the broken lathi in his hand, testing its weight. "Should have run," he told him matter-of-factly, and that said and still grinning, he swung the thing at the boy's face.
He didn't even scream, the force of the blow enough to open the side of his head like a cheap tin can, but that didn't seem to deter Sylar in the least. This wasn't about suffering (not like what he'd done to Isaac all those years ago) or fear (not like playing with his victims before he opened them up), this was something else. This was a need to destroy that went far beyond whatever calls to revenge he had felt before and for a much smaller offense. This was wild and thoughtless, and it didn't even satisfy. If anything, quite to the opposite, when he stepped back from the boy and his ruined face, he was on edge and trembling, some dark, caged thing in the pit of his heart screaming for more. This was beyond the hunger or his own lusts for violence -- that he could control. But this?
He looked down at the boy, still breathing hard, and tightened his fingers around the remains of the lathi as he tried to calm his racing thoughts, sending spiderweb cracks through the polycarbonate. It took him a minute or two to get past the roadblock of animal thoughts that coiled in his head and register the sound, and another handful of minutes to realize that what he'd done shouldn't have been possible.
Dropping his half of the quarterstaff, he stared at it, just as stunned as the boys had been when his shoulder had healed. He wasn't strong enough to shatter the tough plastic like that -- not with his bare hands, not without cheating with his telekinesis, which he hadn't been -- but Mohinder was. Mohinder was, and if he had taken his ability like he had Lydia's and without realizing it, then it would explain this. It explained more than this. The restlessness. How he felt as though his control over himself was slipping ever now and then, yet there was no desire to go out and murder for an ability. Why he felt so strung out, so on edge of overload, every time they slept together.
He ground his teeth together, sneering, anger renewing itself, though he couldn't say why -- he had a new power, he knew logically this should be a moment of triumph -- and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He reached up with his free hand, smearing a line of blood across his face, and dialed Mohinder's number, barely mustering the control it took not to smash the phone to bits as he did so.
He got his voice mail and hung up sharply, tension pulling his shoulders back as he tried to stop himself from pitching the phone through the nearest glass-less window. He managed, albeit barely, and rather than try to call back and leave a message, he set out a pointed text that hopefully conveyed the darkness of his mood.
Suresh. Call me.
There would be hell to pay if the geneticist ignore him for his Goddamn work again.
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. He sprawled in it, stretching out, his head falling back, and stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts just as uneasy as he was, chasing pointless, fractured circles in his head endlessly, each broken train of thought starting and ending with Mohinder and the fact that he'd left him for his father's research. He didn't bother to swallow the sound of his discontent a second time, and he straightened, leaning forward to look over the mess of papers Mohinder had left on the desk, half-tempted to destroy them all.
Some dim, rational thought stopped him before he got that far, and he pushed back to his feet, moving away from the desk and back towards the windows. Rather than wheel back towards the desk and begin his pacing anew, however, he just stood there for a moment, staring out into the afternoon heat, then stalked towards the door hurriedly, suddenly possessed. He needed to get out. Take a walk. Do something, rather than just sitting there, half-stir crazy, until finding ways to shred Mohinder's normal life became a valid idea and not just a passing fancy.
Pausing outside the door, he winced as heat and light assaulted him, and took a moment to let his eyes adjust, rolling up his shirtsleeves in the interim. He thought briefly about going back inside to change his shirt, then decided he didn't have the patience for it, and shuffled away from the house and down through the streets, his disquiet and the senseless, slow-burning anger under it rolling off him in waves, forcing people away from him, subconsciously terrified. He couldn't help but grin wolfishly when he noticed. At least some things never changed.
Still smirking, he slunk through the streets, occasionally pausing to intentionally terrorize someone -- it was amazing what a couple of hungry looks or following someone a few blocks could do -- though sooner rather than later he'd reached the edges of the city as he knew it. There was more to Chennai than this, of course, but he'd never really been beyond this point, either with Mohinder or without, the city branching out into filthy slums that refused to disappear even though it had been more than fire years since the tsunami that had created them in the first place. Considering the mood he was in, however, he only hesitated for a moment or two before crossing the invisible barrier between the civilized world and the jungle of crumbling buildings and stinking shacks that choked the road.
He'd gotten about a block into them -- or so he assumed, though it was hard to tell when the pavement had so abruptly ended -- when a voice called out from behind him. "Hey. Tourist."
He cast a glance over his shoulder, rolled his eyes at the pack of boys that stood behind him, and then turned to face them. Whatever good playing cat and mouse with a few of the natives had done for his mental state evaporated abruptly. "What?"
Their leader waved the polycarbonate staff -- a lathi, as he'd heard Mohinder call it once when they'd show up in the news in the hands of a squad of policemen -- he'd been leaning on at him. "You don't belong here. Bad things happen to tourists here." He paused, drumming the iron tip of the staff against the ground. "Maybe if you give us your wallet, nothing bad will happen to you."
Sylar made a soft, unimpressed noise, and turned away from the group. He didn't have time for muggers back in New York; he sure as hell didn't have time for them now. "Screw you."
He'd managed to get a handful of steps away when the lathi came down on his shoulder, driving him to his knees. He cried out, feeling something shatter, and closed his eyes tightly for a moment, trying to block out the pain as it burned white hot lines on the insides of his eyelids. Then, slowly, he rolled his shoulder, wincing as it snapped back into place, and opened his eyes, looking back at the boys furiously, sharp pain becoming molten, mindless fury.
They seemed stunned, frozen -- they'd seen his shoulder go from obviously broken to perfectly fine, even though his shirt -- and he pounced on that, reaching out to curl his fingers around the lathi sharply. It broke in two where he had touched it, and it never occurred to him to think that that shouldn't have been possible, that it was polycarbonate and he just didn't have the strength. He didn't think at all, instead getting to his feet sharply, his other hand wrapping around the part of the staff the boy was still clinging to to tear it, snarling, from his hands.
The other boys bolted, but not the leader. He was still stuck in place, staring at him in horror, and Sylar grinned horrifically at him, hefting one end of the broken lathi in his hand, testing its weight. "Should have run," he told him matter-of-factly, and that said and still grinning, he swung the thing at the boy's face.
He didn't even scream, the force of the blow enough to open the side of his head like a cheap tin can, but that didn't seem to deter Sylar in the least. This wasn't about suffering (not like what he'd done to Isaac all those years ago) or fear (not like playing with his victims before he opened them up), this was something else. This was a need to destroy that went far beyond whatever calls to revenge he had felt before and for a much smaller offense. This was wild and thoughtless, and it didn't even satisfy. If anything, quite to the opposite, when he stepped back from the boy and his ruined face, he was on edge and trembling, some dark, caged thing in the pit of his heart screaming for more. This was beyond the hunger or his own lusts for violence -- that he could control. But this?
He looked down at the boy, still breathing hard, and tightened his fingers around the remains of the lathi as he tried to calm his racing thoughts, sending spiderweb cracks through the polycarbonate. It took him a minute or two to get past the roadblock of animal thoughts that coiled in his head and register the sound, and another handful of minutes to realize that what he'd done shouldn't have been possible.
Dropping his half of the quarterstaff, he stared at it, just as stunned as the boys had been when his shoulder had healed. He wasn't strong enough to shatter the tough plastic like that -- not with his bare hands, not without cheating with his telekinesis, which he hadn't been -- but Mohinder was. Mohinder was, and if he had taken his ability like he had Lydia's and without realizing it, then it would explain this. It explained more than this. The restlessness. How he felt as though his control over himself was slipping ever now and then, yet there was no desire to go out and murder for an ability. Why he felt so strung out, so on edge of overload, every time they slept together.
He ground his teeth together, sneering, anger renewing itself, though he couldn't say why -- he had a new power, he knew logically this should be a moment of triumph -- and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He reached up with his free hand, smearing a line of blood across his face, and dialed Mohinder's number, barely mustering the control it took not to smash the phone to bits as he did so.
He got his voice mail and hung up sharply, tension pulling his shoulders back as he tried to stop himself from pitching the phone through the nearest glass-less window. He managed, albeit barely, and rather than try to call back and leave a message, he set out a pointed text that hopefully conveyed the darkness of his mood.
Suresh. Call me.
There would be hell to pay if the geneticist ignore him for his Goddamn work again.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1672