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for mad_muses: glass
Feb. 24th, 2009 10:11 pmIt doesn't take him long to realize they're being followed.
He's not sure who it is, the vehicle not what he knows to be standard police issue, unmarked or otherwise, and he can't quite tell who's driving, but they're definitely being followed. From what he can gather from quick glances in the review and side mirrors, they're not exactly being discreet about it, either. When he changes lanes, so do they; if he speeds up, the engine in the car behind them revs, their pace changing to match. It might be unsettling, if he weren't already far too used to playing this game on his own. It's probably supposed to be, actually, but all it's managing to do is grate on his already fragile sanity.
He makes a soft noise at the back of his throat--one meant to pass for amused, even though there's no humor in it-- barely audible over the drone of the radio--and shoots West a sidelong glance. "Do you see that car?" West doesn't answer, clearly somewhere else, and that agitates him just as much as the fact that they're being tailed in the first place. And so he steels his jaw and tries again, this time just a touch louder, "That car's been following us."
Still no response, and so the killer doesn't try again. If the idiot kid wants to be oblivious, he'll let him, and he has more important things to worry about. Things like trying to tune out the commercials from whatever pathetic local radio station they've picked up this far out that the kid refuses to let him turn off, so he can focus on his driving. Or like trying to lose the car behind them, which is complicated by the fact that he can make out the flash of tail lights in the distance, suggesting heavy traffic.
For a moment, he thinks nothing of it--it's almost summer now, and he knows full well that that's construction season. For a moment, he's all to willing to write it off as nothing more than the sworn enemy of tourists and serial killers on missions of revenge alike, but then something occurs to him. Maybe he's just being paranoid--he has a right and a reason, considering his reputation--or maybe this is all part of the game, and whoever it is behind them has planned this, intent on cutting them off.
He doesn't know, but he's not willing to take any chances, refusing to be trapped again.
Casting another quick glance to the rear view, he pulls their car off to the side of the road. The other car follows suit, just concerned motorists, he's sure, and his fingers twitch on the shift. He can see them now, the driver dressed in SWAT gear, leaned back over his seat and more than likely hissing orders, their sudden stop unexpected, and Sylar suddenly knows he was right in thinking the traffic was a set-up.
"Buckle up."
He doesn't, not keen on wasting more time and knowing full well that he'll survive, nor does he wait to see if that much got through to his sidekick. Instead, he throws the car in reverse suddenly, jamming both feet down on the gas as hard as he can. The car wheels helplessly for a moment, tires screeching, treads leaving tracks on the pavement, and then they're flying backwards.
They hit the car behind them with a shower of glass and the scream of metal. Inertia introduces his chest to the steering wheel with enough force to break two of his ribs. He reels, pain catching his breath and refusing to let it go for a moment, and then he's gritting his teeth, pushing through it. He throws a hand towards the door, and the thing opens so sharply under telekinetic force that it rattles on its hinges, and he can't help but take a small amount of satisfaction in that. Whoever these people are, they're going to be in worse shape than the car, when he finishes with them.
That in mind and grinning ferally, he gets out of the car, hands coming up from his sides, ready for the offensive.
The butt of a shotgun being slammed into his temple comes unexpectedly, and he goes down on his knees.
Something caught between a snarl and a groan passes his lips and he tries getting back to his feet, but he never gets that far, the shotgun coming down on his skull again and again and again until his world goes black. And the last thing he registers as life floods back to him a second later is the feel of something cold being shoved up his nose--they're drugging him--and the glitter of splintered glass.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 786
Note: Companion piece to this. I couldn't help it. It inspired me. And hey--West is a cooler Sidekick of Evil than some other people.
He's not sure who it is, the vehicle not what he knows to be standard police issue, unmarked or otherwise, and he can't quite tell who's driving, but they're definitely being followed. From what he can gather from quick glances in the review and side mirrors, they're not exactly being discreet about it, either. When he changes lanes, so do they; if he speeds up, the engine in the car behind them revs, their pace changing to match. It might be unsettling, if he weren't already far too used to playing this game on his own. It's probably supposed to be, actually, but all it's managing to do is grate on his already fragile sanity.
He makes a soft noise at the back of his throat--one meant to pass for amused, even though there's no humor in it-- barely audible over the drone of the radio--and shoots West a sidelong glance. "Do you see that car?" West doesn't answer, clearly somewhere else, and that agitates him just as much as the fact that they're being tailed in the first place. And so he steels his jaw and tries again, this time just a touch louder, "That car's been following us."
Still no response, and so the killer doesn't try again. If the idiot kid wants to be oblivious, he'll let him, and he has more important things to worry about. Things like trying to tune out the commercials from whatever pathetic local radio station they've picked up this far out that the kid refuses to let him turn off, so he can focus on his driving. Or like trying to lose the car behind them, which is complicated by the fact that he can make out the flash of tail lights in the distance, suggesting heavy traffic.
For a moment, he thinks nothing of it--it's almost summer now, and he knows full well that that's construction season. For a moment, he's all to willing to write it off as nothing more than the sworn enemy of tourists and serial killers on missions of revenge alike, but then something occurs to him. Maybe he's just being paranoid--he has a right and a reason, considering his reputation--or maybe this is all part of the game, and whoever it is behind them has planned this, intent on cutting them off.
He doesn't know, but he's not willing to take any chances, refusing to be trapped again.
Casting another quick glance to the rear view, he pulls their car off to the side of the road. The other car follows suit, just concerned motorists, he's sure, and his fingers twitch on the shift. He can see them now, the driver dressed in SWAT gear, leaned back over his seat and more than likely hissing orders, their sudden stop unexpected, and Sylar suddenly knows he was right in thinking the traffic was a set-up.
"Buckle up."
He doesn't, not keen on wasting more time and knowing full well that he'll survive, nor does he wait to see if that much got through to his sidekick. Instead, he throws the car in reverse suddenly, jamming both feet down on the gas as hard as he can. The car wheels helplessly for a moment, tires screeching, treads leaving tracks on the pavement, and then they're flying backwards.
They hit the car behind them with a shower of glass and the scream of metal. Inertia introduces his chest to the steering wheel with enough force to break two of his ribs. He reels, pain catching his breath and refusing to let it go for a moment, and then he's gritting his teeth, pushing through it. He throws a hand towards the door, and the thing opens so sharply under telekinetic force that it rattles on its hinges, and he can't help but take a small amount of satisfaction in that. Whoever these people are, they're going to be in worse shape than the car, when he finishes with them.
That in mind and grinning ferally, he gets out of the car, hands coming up from his sides, ready for the offensive.
The butt of a shotgun being slammed into his temple comes unexpectedly, and he goes down on his knees.
Something caught between a snarl and a groan passes his lips and he tries getting back to his feet, but he never gets that far, the shotgun coming down on his skull again and again and again until his world goes black. And the last thing he registers as life floods back to him a second later is the feel of something cold being shoved up his nose--they're drugging him--and the glitter of splintered glass.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 786
Note: Companion piece to this. I couldn't help it. It inspired me. And hey--West is a cooler Sidekick of Evil than some other people.
