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for writers_muses: afraid
May. 23rd, 2009 04:47 pmThe cabin attendant had been afraid.
It was the first thing he came aware of, when his hand touched the kid's skin, and it hit him like a shock of cold water on a warm day. He supposed on some level, in the part of his mind that was still his for the moment, that it was to be expected--the boy had been murdered, after all--but he'd been braced for something else. For pain, but no fear, the whole thing over too quick for the attendant to really realized what was happening until he'd been in hell for thirty seconds, like his usual kills were, when he wasn't savoring the moment. Like the waitress in Odessa had been. Or Sprague, if you discounted the fact that he'd flipped the truck they'd been escorting him in beforehand.
He supposed, however, that not every killer had the same finesse he did, and so he tried to push through the fear, fingers shifting just a bit on the boy's skin in an attempt to give him a better grip on himself, even as he watched the scene before him. A deep breath followed, and then he was racing down the deck toward only God knew where, fueled by the memory and his own insatiable curiosity, rather than simply running like a bat out of hell like the other man was. Not that either of them got particularly far, stopped by the rise of walls that neither of the attendant hadn't seen--and therefore neither had he, as this wasn't his memory--until it had been too late. The idiot had trapped himself in a dead end.
The attendant turned, breathless, and he followed suit, peering into the strange shadows the lights on deck cast. Silence and a shiver of hope that maybe he--they--had escaped followed, and then at the far end of the hallway, one of the lights died, fizzling as if it had been submerged underwater for too long. The one opposite it followed. Then the next pair, closer to them. Then the next.
Terror reasserted itself, and Sylar cast a glance at the man whose memory he was stealing as he stiffened before fumbling for the mess of keys at his side. And while he wasn't sure if it was simple intuition or a tie to the vision, he could tell that the attendant was hoping to let himself into the nearest room, to avoid whatever was out there in the dark. They were close enough to possible safety, after all, and the man had to have the right key, didn't he? Neither of them seemed to know, but it didn't stop the kid from wheeling on his heels again, back towards the cabin he'd trapped them against, stuffing one key after another into the lock, hoping one of them would work.
In the end, he found the right key, but it came a second too late, as suddenly he was choking. Sylar followed suit, caught by the ghosts of what had happened and unable to remind himself that this wasn't real.
Lungs burning, his head spinning, the killer sucked in a sharp breath, trying to cry out, but he found he couldn't. Nor could he cough, as his chest was demanding he at least try. He twitched--possibly in the memory, possibly physically back where he was sure his body was abandoning him--and then dug his nails into his fingers, sharply, as the realization finally sunk in that none of this wasn't actually happening. And when he came back to himself, apparently never having moved from where he'd crouched by the dead attendant, it occurred to Sylar that he knew exactly how the boy had died.
"He drown."
Before West could point it out, he knew that wasn't quite proper English, but his head was still buzzing from the shadow of the attendant's death. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself and his breathing so he could correct himself, but his traveling companion beat him to the punch, one eyebrow raised curiously. "He ... drown ... ed?"
Somehow, Sylar managed to summon up a wry smile. "I was using broken English."
Not that it mattered, nor did the rest of the conversation, really. What was important that someone else on the ship was like them, and whoever it was, they were giving super powered psychopaths like him a bad name.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 727
Note: Written as a companion piece to this. West is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ihavea_theory, naturally.
It was the first thing he came aware of, when his hand touched the kid's skin, and it hit him like a shock of cold water on a warm day. He supposed on some level, in the part of his mind that was still his for the moment, that it was to be expected--the boy had been murdered, after all--but he'd been braced for something else. For pain, but no fear, the whole thing over too quick for the attendant to really realized what was happening until he'd been in hell for thirty seconds, like his usual kills were, when he wasn't savoring the moment. Like the waitress in Odessa had been. Or Sprague, if you discounted the fact that he'd flipped the truck they'd been escorting him in beforehand.
He supposed, however, that not every killer had the same finesse he did, and so he tried to push through the fear, fingers shifting just a bit on the boy's skin in an attempt to give him a better grip on himself, even as he watched the scene before him. A deep breath followed, and then he was racing down the deck toward only God knew where, fueled by the memory and his own insatiable curiosity, rather than simply running like a bat out of hell like the other man was. Not that either of them got particularly far, stopped by the rise of walls that neither of the attendant hadn't seen--and therefore neither had he, as this wasn't his memory--until it had been too late. The idiot had trapped himself in a dead end.
The attendant turned, breathless, and he followed suit, peering into the strange shadows the lights on deck cast. Silence and a shiver of hope that maybe he--they--had escaped followed, and then at the far end of the hallway, one of the lights died, fizzling as if it had been submerged underwater for too long. The one opposite it followed. Then the next pair, closer to them. Then the next.
Terror reasserted itself, and Sylar cast a glance at the man whose memory he was stealing as he stiffened before fumbling for the mess of keys at his side. And while he wasn't sure if it was simple intuition or a tie to the vision, he could tell that the attendant was hoping to let himself into the nearest room, to avoid whatever was out there in the dark. They were close enough to possible safety, after all, and the man had to have the right key, didn't he? Neither of them seemed to know, but it didn't stop the kid from wheeling on his heels again, back towards the cabin he'd trapped them against, stuffing one key after another into the lock, hoping one of them would work.
In the end, he found the right key, but it came a second too late, as suddenly he was choking. Sylar followed suit, caught by the ghosts of what had happened and unable to remind himself that this wasn't real.
Lungs burning, his head spinning, the killer sucked in a sharp breath, trying to cry out, but he found he couldn't. Nor could he cough, as his chest was demanding he at least try. He twitched--possibly in the memory, possibly physically back where he was sure his body was abandoning him--and then dug his nails into his fingers, sharply, as the realization finally sunk in that none of this wasn't actually happening. And when he came back to himself, apparently never having moved from where he'd crouched by the dead attendant, it occurred to Sylar that he knew exactly how the boy had died.
"He drown."
Before West could point it out, he knew that wasn't quite proper English, but his head was still buzzing from the shadow of the attendant's death. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself and his breathing so he could correct himself, but his traveling companion beat him to the punch, one eyebrow raised curiously. "He ... drown ... ed?"
Somehow, Sylar managed to summon up a wry smile. "I was using broken English."
Not that it mattered, nor did the rest of the conversation, really. What was important that someone else on the ship was like them, and whoever it was, they were giving super powered psychopaths like him a bad name.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 727
Note: Written as a companion piece to this. West is
ihavea_theory, naturally.
