for philosophy_20: birth
Sep. 11th, 2008 09:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
heroslayer"No, don't touch -- "
It's too late. Something explodes, burning bright but not hot, but it still hurts. The light is too much, sending Gabriel stumbling back into his workbench as if he'd been struck physically, and the sudden smell of ozone stings in his nose and turns his stomach. He cries out (or maybe that small, shocked noise comes from West; he's not sure), and then the fire suppression system is springing to life.
The flames from the explosion die a quick, wet death, and he sighs. He reaches up, slipping his fingers under the bottoms of his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose, eyes aching, before casting a glance at West. He's alright for the most part, sucking at the fingers he's stuck in his mouth as if they're singed, but he's still in one piece.
His latest invention is not quite so lucky, nor are his glasses, the latter spattered with water from the sprinklers, wet encasing things in odd, splotchy halos at random. Soiling his otherwise usually immaculate appearance.
Deciding that this won't do, appearances more immediately important than a survey of the damage, he pulls his glasses off as if they're suddenly offensive. He lowers them to the hem of his shirt reflexively, to clean them off, but it's no use. His clothing is just as soaked, if not more so, than his eye wear, and dear God there is a foot of space between his shoes and the floor. A foot of empty space. He's -- he's --
Whatever this is (you stole the kid's power, a voice at the back of his head hisses) fails under his shocked revelation, and he falls back to earth, his landing jarring. And loud, apparently, as suddenly the boy's eyes are on him, rather than fixed balefully on the remains of Gabriel's handiwork.
A moment of silence passes between them, and then West's eyes narrow suspiciously, putting two and two together. "Did you just -- "
"No," he all but snarls, cutting him off. The word is only half directed at him, though. The other half is a pointed warning to the monster that's been haunting his nightmares since Peter told him what he was a time line ago.
The shadows that haunt the edges of his conscious mind like ghosts are forgotten in an instant, however, as he watches West, his face set in concentration. He's trying to fly, trying to reassure himself that he jumped to the wrong conclusion and that he can still manage his gift, Gabriel's sure.
He's sure, but as he tilts his head at the teenager to see the act in progress with his unique aptitudes, he finds he can't. It's not just that there's nothing there to look at, it's that his usual perception filters are gone. His intuitive aptitude, stripped from him. He's flying blind.
Terror nests in his stomach like an angry bird, poking and prodding, and he licks at his lips, eyes dancing upwards to meet West's. They stare at each other for what seems like forever, both like fish out of water, and then slowly, West ventures, "Is it me, or is this classic comic book?"
"Comic book?" Gabriel parrots.
"You can fly, even if you want to, like, lie about it. I can do whatever it is you do. I can see it, man." The teenager shrugs. "Power swap."
They're both silent for a long time, West seeming to roll with it as only people that young can, and Gabriel getting more and more frightened. Like an animal suddenly caged. "Fix it."
West turns away from the machine; he'd started studying it in the pause. "What?"
"You have my gift," he snaps, making a wild gesture at the remains of his invention. "Fix it."
The boy edges back a half an inch and points to Gabriel's glasses, still in his hand from where he'd gone to clean them. "You, uh ... don't want to go for the whole Clark Kent-Superman angle for awhile? It might be fun, and you kinda look the part."
He twitches bodily. It's the only thing that keeps a sneer from grabbing his lips and twisting as horror turns to white-hot anger. "Fix. It." When he doesn't react, he adds a sharp, "Now."
West mutters something about him being Bizarro, rather than Superman, but turns to work as commanded, picking bits of fused wire and melted plastic from the ruins of Gabriel's labors.
He settles down on the stool at the workbench to watch the teenager try and fix this, and tries to keep himself from thinking. Mostly because he suddenly can't help but wonder what has brought him closer to birthing the monster than lurks in the darkness of his heart, today. The fact that he's secretly elated he can fly, or the idea that his own voice, in demanding West correct his mistakes, was a little too close to the one in his nightmares.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes (Primatech!verse)
Word Count: 826
Notes: Blaming this partially on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
savagestime, who wanted to see Superman!Gabriel. This was as close as I could get. This also quite possibly has no bearing on verse canon, but it was the easiest verse to try and slip this into. :P
It's too late. Something explodes, burning bright but not hot, but it still hurts. The light is too much, sending Gabriel stumbling back into his workbench as if he'd been struck physically, and the sudden smell of ozone stings in his nose and turns his stomach. He cries out (or maybe that small, shocked noise comes from West; he's not sure), and then the fire suppression system is springing to life.
The flames from the explosion die a quick, wet death, and he sighs. He reaches up, slipping his fingers under the bottoms of his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose, eyes aching, before casting a glance at West. He's alright for the most part, sucking at the fingers he's stuck in his mouth as if they're singed, but he's still in one piece.
His latest invention is not quite so lucky, nor are his glasses, the latter spattered with water from the sprinklers, wet encasing things in odd, splotchy halos at random. Soiling his otherwise usually immaculate appearance.
Deciding that this won't do, appearances more immediately important than a survey of the damage, he pulls his glasses off as if they're suddenly offensive. He lowers them to the hem of his shirt reflexively, to clean them off, but it's no use. His clothing is just as soaked, if not more so, than his eye wear, and dear God there is a foot of space between his shoes and the floor. A foot of empty space. He's -- he's --
Whatever this is (you stole the kid's power, a voice at the back of his head hisses) fails under his shocked revelation, and he falls back to earth, his landing jarring. And loud, apparently, as suddenly the boy's eyes are on him, rather than fixed balefully on the remains of Gabriel's handiwork.
A moment of silence passes between them, and then West's eyes narrow suspiciously, putting two and two together. "Did you just -- "
"No," he all but snarls, cutting him off. The word is only half directed at him, though. The other half is a pointed warning to the monster that's been haunting his nightmares since Peter told him what he was a time line ago.
The shadows that haunt the edges of his conscious mind like ghosts are forgotten in an instant, however, as he watches West, his face set in concentration. He's trying to fly, trying to reassure himself that he jumped to the wrong conclusion and that he can still manage his gift, Gabriel's sure.
He's sure, but as he tilts his head at the teenager to see the act in progress with his unique aptitudes, he finds he can't. It's not just that there's nothing there to look at, it's that his usual perception filters are gone. His intuitive aptitude, stripped from him. He's flying blind.
Terror nests in his stomach like an angry bird, poking and prodding, and he licks at his lips, eyes dancing upwards to meet West's. They stare at each other for what seems like forever, both like fish out of water, and then slowly, West ventures, "Is it me, or is this classic comic book?"
"Comic book?" Gabriel parrots.
"You can fly, even if you want to, like, lie about it. I can do whatever it is you do. I can see it, man." The teenager shrugs. "Power swap."
They're both silent for a long time, West seeming to roll with it as only people that young can, and Gabriel getting more and more frightened. Like an animal suddenly caged. "Fix it."
West turns away from the machine; he'd started studying it in the pause. "What?"
"You have my gift," he snaps, making a wild gesture at the remains of his invention. "Fix it."
The boy edges back a half an inch and points to Gabriel's glasses, still in his hand from where he'd gone to clean them. "You, uh ... don't want to go for the whole Clark Kent-Superman angle for awhile? It might be fun, and you kinda look the part."
He twitches bodily. It's the only thing that keeps a sneer from grabbing his lips and twisting as horror turns to white-hot anger. "Fix. It." When he doesn't react, he adds a sharp, "Now."
West mutters something about him being Bizarro, rather than Superman, but turns to work as commanded, picking bits of fused wire and melted plastic from the ruins of Gabriel's labors.
He settles down on the stool at the workbench to watch the teenager try and fix this, and tries to keep himself from thinking. Mostly because he suddenly can't help but wonder what has brought him closer to birthing the monster than lurks in the darkness of his heart, today. The fact that he's secretly elated he can fly, or the idea that his own voice, in demanding West correct his mistakes, was a little too close to the one in his nightmares.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes (Primatech!verse)
Word Count: 826
Notes: Blaming this partially on
savagestime, who wanted to see Superman!Gabriel. This was as close as I could get. This also quite possibly has no bearing on verse canon, but it was the easiest verse to try and slip this into. :P
