for badcompany_muse: wrath

[heroslayer]

Remember, and forget not, how thou provokedst the Lord thy God to wrath.


The shadows are alive.

He's vaguely aware that normally, it's all in his head as shadows aren't sentient, but this time? This time, his imagination has basis in fact, as he's aware of Mohinder looming behind him, watching. He can't feel his thoughts, his mind having shut down his telepathy--or at least his half of it--so it can cope with the race horse stride of his own insanity, but he can sense his presence. Hear his heart beating in the dark, over the jump of his and the hammer of hers.

Her. His prey.

He's been leashed too long, unfairly chained while Mohinder's managed two kills without even letting him be there, a voyeur to darker impulses. He's been ignoring the ticking, trying to stop the influx of madness and want to know. But not anymore. Not anymore, and he's in fine form, slinking through the shadows of the boiler room, wanting to make this last. Who knows the next time something so easy, so wonderful--terrible--will be right under his nose? Who knows how long it will be before Mohinder lets him again?

So he's going to take her, this girl who looks so very out of place down here, in a smart business suit and three inch heels.

He'd been expecting a homeless person, truth be told--it's warm down here, and winter is coming--or, barring that, a repair person come to fix the boiler. But she's neither, and as he weaves through the pipes back towards where she's hiding, he hums to himself. To her. One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others.

She starts, cloth on cloth a sigh on his ears, and skitters away, putting her back to the wall unintentionally. She's making this far too easy, he thinks, but he doesn't mind. He wants and he will have, regardless of difficulty of the kill, and so he throws out a hand, backed by violent thought.

She grunts as she hits the wall, and he steps up to her, dragging her up the tile as surely as his fingers move. "That's not very ladylike," he tells her, chiding, a grin on his face.

"Sylar," she hisses. And while he loves it when they use his name, it doesn't happen very often, and so it sticks out. She shouldn't know--they never know unless he's told them--and that cuts through the dizzying song of madness in his head as surely as a knife.

"You know me. Strange."

Who would know that name? The FBI? She fits the bill, but barring Parkman, he can't think of anyone--he can't think beyond the questions that haunt--like them on their payroll. Who else? Who else would know?

It hits him like a ton of bricks, but he doesn't flinch away from the weight of realization. Instead, he lets it fuel him.

"You're one of them." Not the evolved--they both know that as fact--but one of them. The Company. It all fits together like so many jumbled puzzle pieces, from the cut of her suit to the fact that she knows him. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

She doesn't answer, and it's the wrong answer.

He reaches out mentally, snaring her thoughts between invisible fingers and twisting until something breaks. She shrieks, sound loud enough to make him wince, her fingers scrabbling against the tile he has her pinned to in a desperate attempt to get at her nose, as it's suddenly leaking blood. He only hopes he hasn't ruined her brain, because he still wants a look at that, when he's finished questioning her.

"Who are you," he tries again, voice little more than a snarl.

And she tells him. She tells him everything. So that's what snapped.

"Bridget Bailey. I'm here with the Company." Sweet little Bridget sounds like she's going to be sick from all the words she's spitting up. "They sent me to check in on him. Mohinder Suresh. They haven't heard back from him in weeks, and they know you're out there--they're starting to think you came for him. You and Adam Monroe."

So they know about his team-up with Monroe? Unfortunate.

"They want to protect what's theirs."

Black fury chases driving madness away, and takes up its rightful place in the seat of his heart. He raises a finger, telekinetic pin becoming a choke hold so he doesn't have to listen to her anymore. And in a tone too calm to be sane, he tells her simply, "Sorry. He's mine, now."

She doesn't last long after that, but he's sure to make her suffer.


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 760