Sylar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heroslayer) wrote2008-10-26 04:30 pm
heroslayer) wrote2008-10-26 04:30 pm
for badcompany_muse: what's in the box?
The hallway smells like blood, which, Sylar thinks hazily, is probably unsurprising since he's missing two of his fingers. He's not sure where they ended up, exactly--probably on the other side of the maglock door that the bitch slammed on his hand when he tried to grab her--but he supposes it doesn't matter. What does matter is that he's fairly sure he's going into shock, despite the fact that his body is healing around it, and that this whole thing is turning out to be a disaster.
Despite Adam's cryptic warnings--
Don't let him touch you. If you let him touch you, nothing of my gift will save you. He will kill you, and you will stay dead, make no mistake. And then he'll come for me. And your geneticist. And anyone else that strikes his fancy.
--he had been expecting it to be easy in and easy out. Kill Arthur Petrelli. Return with his head.
All of his murders have been, after all, when he's not playing games and drawing out the hunt, so he wasn't expecting this to be any different. But it was, first with the firing squad laying in wait, when he stepped into the building, originally, and then the teleporter. The one who'd moved through the halls, appearing and disappearing as he chased her, her power obviously limited to line of sight jumps, or she would have just flat out ran when he took out the guards with their own guns.
He's sure of it. Just as, in his slowly fading delirium, he's sure that his fingers growing back is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
He stares at his hand, watching new bones stretch out like needles, dimly aware of the pain. It hurts to grow bits of yourself back, apparently--he hadn't considered that--so, he supposes he should be grateful for the fog in his head. He can imagine it being a real bitch if his body had concerned itself with trying to fight the shock before the healing process kicked in.
It doesn't stop him from wincing as muscle and flesh starts to knit itself over the bone, though, nor does it keep his heart from spinning dizzy circles in his stomach. He can't sink down against the wall, like he wants to, however, nor will he allow himself to be ill over this. It's new, that's all--he just has to learn to cope--and the teleporter is getting further and further away, and he can't have that. It might be more than a couple of fingers he loses next time, after all.
So, hand shaking as he raises it, he burns bright, light jumping from his fingertips in an wide arc that sizzles as it splits the air. The door hisses open, and belatedly, he thinks that he could have just pulled the door off--twelve hundred pounds of pull would have done it--but it doesn't matter. Either way, he's through, and his mind is starting to come back to him, hand healed now.
And he's like a wrecking ball.
It's a slow start, pausing on the other side of the door both for his own peace of mind and to note the smear of blood along one of the walls--he must have gotten the teleporter, even if she's gone now. He trails his fingers through the stain, using his new power to get a reading, a memory of fear and pain that's not his. She's really gone--got the hell out of Dodge, leaving poor Arthur Petrelli all alone--and he smiles as he pulls his hand away to move down the hallway.
He gains speed, fast and unstoppable, Adam's marching orders ringing in his ears--
Get rid of him. Now. Get rid of him now.
--and within a few minutes, he's at another door. The door to the inner sanctum. He pulled the knowledge of such from where the teleporter had marked the proverbial path for him.
Another smile, though this one is the bastard child of a grin and a sneer, and he rips this door off its hinges. He supposes, belatedly, that he could have just tried to see if it was unlocked, but he wants to make his entrance with a bang. Catch his mark and the guards he's expecting off guard, so he has a moment to breathe and analyze the situation.
Imagine his surprise when he finds he doesn't need it.
The room is medical and cold, reeking of antiseptic and spotted with machines, most of which he has no idea what do, but a quick, critical glance tells him that they're life support of some kind. Tubes blossom from the metal of the machines like roots, feeding into someone--presumably his target--laying prone in the bed. And there's not another soul in sight, no sound above the wheeze of breath from the bed and the turn of the machines as they work to keep blood flowing.
He tilts his head to one side, sharply. This is it? This is what Adam was so afraid of?
Sylar doesn't understand, but he wants to. He needs to know, and Petrelli's father is unconscious, so he doesn't have to worry about him touching him, while he gets a good look at the machines. And so he moves over to the bedside, looking over the nonsense on the screen, waiting for it to become clear to him as everything he takes the time to analyze always does.
He hears him move before he sees it.
Taking a few stumbling steps back away from the monitor, his concentration shattered, he shoots a glance at Petrelli, weak and reaching for him. He doesn't know what the hell's going on, but he's not about to ignore Adam's warning, and he's amazingly grateful for his hearing all of a sudden. If he didn't have it, he wouldn't have known the bastard had moved--hell, even with it, he couldn't tell he was conscious over the hum of the machines and the sound of ticking in his ears.
His lips part to snarl curses at his would-be attacker, but he never gets that far, thoughts ringing in his head like church bells.
They told me you'd come for me, Gabriel.
He's getting sick of people knowing who he is--first Bridget, now Petrelli--and so he sneers. "You have a precog. That explains the attack."
Petrelli neither confirms nor denies this. Instead, he simply sinks back into the bed, breath rattling like wind through bare trees; he's not stupid enough to get close again.
You've grown so much, he tells him instead. The last time I saw you, you were fourteen. Martin was upset that you didn't look anything like him.
"Martin," he repeats, bewildered. "You knew my father?"
He laughs, or he tries to, but the sound breaks off into sick, wet hacking, sound made hollow by the tube in his throat. And while he doesn't answer directly, Sylar's able to sift the truth out of the dark thoughts Arthur is having, concerning his health. Martin Gray wasn't your father. I am. Why do you think he left?
"No," Sylar hisses, but--but there's no reason for him to lie. No amount of combing though thoughts is turning up the truth. His heart isn't hammering like someone who's lying. There's no reason. No reason, and when Petrelli settles, he mentally repeats the thought, as if he--his fucking son--hadn't picked up on it in the first place.
He takes a shaky step back, eyes wide, bile stinging at the back of his throat as his world crumbles under his feet. No lie. No lie--this is his father. No lie--he's a fucking Petrelli. No lie.
He wants to run. Just take another step back and then another and then another, until he's bolting back the way he came. It would be so easy--easier than Mexico--and he wouldn't have to deal with this. Arthur would stay here behind closed doors, he could tell Adam he couldn't find him, and Mohinder, he could--
And then he'll come for me. And your geneticist. And anyone else that strikes his fancy.
--shit, Mohinder.
He twitches visibly, suddenly convinced this is a set-up. Arthur Petrelli may be his father, that's all well and good, but this is a trap. The Company's already been to try and catch Mohinder, with Bridget, and if Angela Petrelli is with them--he's pretty sure she is--who's to say the patriarch of the family isn't? Who's to say that that's not where the goddamned teleporter went?
Rage floods him, dampening the sick feeling in his chest, and he raises a hand. How dare he. How dare Petrelli touch what's his. "Well, dad," he quips, "it was really great meeting you."
He'd be more caustic than that, taunt him further, but he doesn't have time. Instead, he just swipes a finger through the air--off with his head--catching Arthur's head telekinetically, as it rolls from his shoulders. And, ignoring the howl of the equipment flatlining, he makes to grab an empty box, one he assumes contained medical supplies, from the floor near the bed.
He stuffs Petrelli's head in it, and then he's gone.
He'll bring Adam his present--the head of John the Baptist--later. Right now, he needs to get home and find out if Mohinder is asleep where he left him.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1547
Note: Adam is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
changehistory and used with permission.
Despite Adam's cryptic warnings--
Don't let him touch you. If you let him touch you, nothing of my gift will save you. He will kill you, and you will stay dead, make no mistake. And then he'll come for me. And your geneticist. And anyone else that strikes his fancy.
--he had been expecting it to be easy in and easy out. Kill Arthur Petrelli. Return with his head.
All of his murders have been, after all, when he's not playing games and drawing out the hunt, so he wasn't expecting this to be any different. But it was, first with the firing squad laying in wait, when he stepped into the building, originally, and then the teleporter. The one who'd moved through the halls, appearing and disappearing as he chased her, her power obviously limited to line of sight jumps, or she would have just flat out ran when he took out the guards with their own guns.
He's sure of it. Just as, in his slowly fading delirium, he's sure that his fingers growing back is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
He stares at his hand, watching new bones stretch out like needles, dimly aware of the pain. It hurts to grow bits of yourself back, apparently--he hadn't considered that--so, he supposes he should be grateful for the fog in his head. He can imagine it being a real bitch if his body had concerned itself with trying to fight the shock before the healing process kicked in.
It doesn't stop him from wincing as muscle and flesh starts to knit itself over the bone, though, nor does it keep his heart from spinning dizzy circles in his stomach. He can't sink down against the wall, like he wants to, however, nor will he allow himself to be ill over this. It's new, that's all--he just has to learn to cope--and the teleporter is getting further and further away, and he can't have that. It might be more than a couple of fingers he loses next time, after all.
So, hand shaking as he raises it, he burns bright, light jumping from his fingertips in an wide arc that sizzles as it splits the air. The door hisses open, and belatedly, he thinks that he could have just pulled the door off--twelve hundred pounds of pull would have done it--but it doesn't matter. Either way, he's through, and his mind is starting to come back to him, hand healed now.
And he's like a wrecking ball.
It's a slow start, pausing on the other side of the door both for his own peace of mind and to note the smear of blood along one of the walls--he must have gotten the teleporter, even if she's gone now. He trails his fingers through the stain, using his new power to get a reading, a memory of fear and pain that's not his. She's really gone--got the hell out of Dodge, leaving poor Arthur Petrelli all alone--and he smiles as he pulls his hand away to move down the hallway.
He gains speed, fast and unstoppable, Adam's marching orders ringing in his ears--
Get rid of him. Now. Get rid of him now.
--and within a few minutes, he's at another door. The door to the inner sanctum. He pulled the knowledge of such from where the teleporter had marked the proverbial path for him.
Another smile, though this one is the bastard child of a grin and a sneer, and he rips this door off its hinges. He supposes, belatedly, that he could have just tried to see if it was unlocked, but he wants to make his entrance with a bang. Catch his mark and the guards he's expecting off guard, so he has a moment to breathe and analyze the situation.
Imagine his surprise when he finds he doesn't need it.
The room is medical and cold, reeking of antiseptic and spotted with machines, most of which he has no idea what do, but a quick, critical glance tells him that they're life support of some kind. Tubes blossom from the metal of the machines like roots, feeding into someone--presumably his target--laying prone in the bed. And there's not another soul in sight, no sound above the wheeze of breath from the bed and the turn of the machines as they work to keep blood flowing.
He tilts his head to one side, sharply. This is it? This is what Adam was so afraid of?
Sylar doesn't understand, but he wants to. He needs to know, and Petrelli's father is unconscious, so he doesn't have to worry about him touching him, while he gets a good look at the machines. And so he moves over to the bedside, looking over the nonsense on the screen, waiting for it to become clear to him as everything he takes the time to analyze always does.
He hears him move before he sees it.
Taking a few stumbling steps back away from the monitor, his concentration shattered, he shoots a glance at Petrelli, weak and reaching for him. He doesn't know what the hell's going on, but he's not about to ignore Adam's warning, and he's amazingly grateful for his hearing all of a sudden. If he didn't have it, he wouldn't have known the bastard had moved--hell, even with it, he couldn't tell he was conscious over the hum of the machines and the sound of ticking in his ears.
His lips part to snarl curses at his would-be attacker, but he never gets that far, thoughts ringing in his head like church bells.
They told me you'd come for me, Gabriel.
He's getting sick of people knowing who he is--first Bridget, now Petrelli--and so he sneers. "You have a precog. That explains the attack."
Petrelli neither confirms nor denies this. Instead, he simply sinks back into the bed, breath rattling like wind through bare trees; he's not stupid enough to get close again.
You've grown so much, he tells him instead. The last time I saw you, you were fourteen. Martin was upset that you didn't look anything like him.
"Martin," he repeats, bewildered. "You knew my father?"
He laughs, or he tries to, but the sound breaks off into sick, wet hacking, sound made hollow by the tube in his throat. And while he doesn't answer directly, Sylar's able to sift the truth out of the dark thoughts Arthur is having, concerning his health. Martin Gray wasn't your father. I am. Why do you think he left?
"No," Sylar hisses, but--but there's no reason for him to lie. No amount of combing though thoughts is turning up the truth. His heart isn't hammering like someone who's lying. There's no reason. No reason, and when Petrelli settles, he mentally repeats the thought, as if he--his fucking son--hadn't picked up on it in the first place.
He takes a shaky step back, eyes wide, bile stinging at the back of his throat as his world crumbles under his feet. No lie. No lie--this is his father. No lie--he's a fucking Petrelli. No lie.
He wants to run. Just take another step back and then another and then another, until he's bolting back the way he came. It would be so easy--easier than Mexico--and he wouldn't have to deal with this. Arthur would stay here behind closed doors, he could tell Adam he couldn't find him, and Mohinder, he could--
And then he'll come for me. And your geneticist. And anyone else that strikes his fancy.
--shit, Mohinder.
He twitches visibly, suddenly convinced this is a set-up. Arthur Petrelli may be his father, that's all well and good, but this is a trap. The Company's already been to try and catch Mohinder, with Bridget, and if Angela Petrelli is with them--he's pretty sure she is--who's to say the patriarch of the family isn't? Who's to say that that's not where the goddamned teleporter went?
Rage floods him, dampening the sick feeling in his chest, and he raises a hand. How dare he. How dare Petrelli touch what's his. "Well, dad," he quips, "it was really great meeting you."
He'd be more caustic than that, taunt him further, but he doesn't have time. Instead, he just swipes a finger through the air--off with his head--catching Arthur's head telekinetically, as it rolls from his shoulders. And, ignoring the howl of the equipment flatlining, he makes to grab an empty box, one he assumes contained medical supplies, from the floor near the bed.
He stuffs Petrelli's head in it, and then he's gone.
He'll bring Adam his present--the head of John the Baptist--later. Right now, he needs to get home and find out if Mohinder is asleep where he left him.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1547
Note: Adam is
changehistory and used with permission.
ooc:
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In my world? Adam is still there, causing havoc. It's a nice world to be in.
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OOC
The more I think about last week, the just... madder I get. There'd better be some win tonight.
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And seriously? Same here. On both counts--the mad and the win. Here's hoping Kring doesn't screw us over another week, right?
Oh, and BTW. Sylar, the sadistic sonovabitch that he is, wants to know how Erin's doing after their chat, last night.
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And she says ":p", but... less of the ".....", about the same on the shaken part of things. She didn't get a lot of sleep that wasn't fairly fitful, last night.
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And Sylar laughs. His work here is done, and he's going to get the petty cash for that mustache, now.
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Adam: *squishes his BFF to death, only not real death, but you get the level of squishing? 'cause yeah, there's that much squishing. manliness be damned*
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Sylar: *yeah, eff manliness at the moment. squishes back!*
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Because, seriously? That whole thing = bad crack.
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Trust me, I'm right there with you.
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ooc
Just wait till Peter finds out...
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Well, either way, if Peter spazzes, Sylar will be all, "DUDE YOU ARE A MORON HE WOULD HAVE KILLED US ALL AND ADAM TOLD ME TO SO NYEH! :P"
Clearly, he's slipping in to the brother role well.
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And brb after the episode -- need to concentrate on this one. :)
And now that I've seen it, dude, he really is slipping into the brother role well!
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