heroslayer: (you're in for the fight of your life)
[personal profile] heroslayer
"You're going to torture me in front of them?"

"No." He leaned down, putting himself level with the other man, eyes wide and serious, as if he was just afraid of what was to happen next as Simmons. "I'm going to torture them in front of you."

He cast a look at Mary here, all pretenses of fear giving way to sick fascination as she struggled against his grip, and briefly, he considered telling her that it would do her no good. Then again, he figured that she probably knew, judging by the soft sounds she was making, and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards, pleased. It had been so long since he'd tortured someone, barring what he'd already done to Simmons thus far, and he could almost taste how good their reactions were bound to be, simply based on what he'd gotten thus far.

An all out grin split his face, and he rocked back on his heels, straightening, before turning to look around the house with detached interest. "See," he started, moving over to the door that lead to the kitchen, reaching out to stroke his fingers over the frame, "I've got this ... theory, I guess you'd call it. Torturing someone like you, well, they've all but beaten the self-preservation instinct out of you, haven't they?"

He shot Simmons a glance over his shoulder. "All that military training," he murmured, before turning back to head into the kitchen in earnest. He kept his voice loud enough to be heard, when he continued. "But them? They're what to you? Civilians? I'm sure whoever sent you told you how important they are. How special."

There was in a coffee maker in here, and it caught his attention, so he paused. Funny, he suddenly felt like a cup of coffee, and since his victims weren't going anywhere, he figured why not. But what kind of host would he be, if he didn't offer them some?

Poking his head back out into the living room, he raised his eyebrows. "Coffee anyone?" No one answered. "No? Huh. Suit yourself."

He shrugged before turning on his heels, padding back into the kitchen, merrily. For a moment, he considered his surroundings, and then, he set to work ransacking the cupboards for grounds. They weren't all that hard to find, really--though, much to his amusement, he was a can of coffee grounds, apparently, as when he'd muttered something along the lines of, "If I were a coffee can, where would I be?" it had all but magically appeared--and sooner rather than later, the coffee was brewing.

Content with this fact, he leaned against the counter, folded his arms and tried to remember where he'd left off. "Where were we?" he called into the living room, and again, no one answered. Really, that was frustrating, when he was having such a good day, but he supposed it was to be expected. "Oh, right. Civilians. Whoever sent you probably told you to make sure they didn't get hurt, but it's more than that. There's this--this rule in psychology. Most of the time, people will put up with being tortured, themselves, for a long time. They think they're doing the right thing, taking the information with them, to the grave. That they're keeping their word. But if you bring other people into the equation? Then they have to decide which is more important: the information they're protecting, or the people they could be."

He cast a glance at the coffee maker, considering it idly, for a moment, before asking, "So which is more important to you, Agent Simmons? Not telling me where my father is or not letting a psychopath hurt the Campbells out there?"

"I'm not telling you anything, you sick sonovabitch," Simmons croaked.

Sylar shuddered as the lie raced up his spine and the feeling was so good, he decided he could live with having to stomach the sick sonovabitch line for not the first time, today. Some people were so uncreative. "You're lying," he commented, "but that's fine. It makes me feel better, actually--this way, I know I'll get something out of you."

He smiled, falling silent as he waited for the coffee to finish, and when it did, he snatched a mug off the rack over the sink, before pouring himself a cup. Then he was back out into the living room, where apparently, in the few moments of pause he'd allowed himself, Simmons had fallen all but unconscious. Looked like the coffee had been a good idea, after all.

Creeping over to his spent victim, he nudged him lightly, putting the mug under his nose as if they were smelling salts, rather than simple coffee. "Agent Simmons?" And when he failed to stir, he stepped back, offering Mary a small, helpless smile. "Seems fatigued."

Mary nodded, watching him with terrified eyes; he grinned.

If Simmons wouldn't wake for coffee, he was sure he could find other ways of getting his attention.



Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 827

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Sylar

February 2013

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