Sylar

(After this and before this. Written with girl_ofsecrets, obviously.)


Las Vegas, it seemed as good of place as any. It would be easier to blend in there and she could find a job at a casino because Sylar wouldn't dare attack her in a crowded place like that. He was crazy and he was a bastard but he wouldn't risk exposure like that. But after over a month, she was regretting the casino idea as she swore if she could bruise, her backside would be covered. It gave her a lot of money though and she didn't have to spend much on the little apartment that she had gotten just off the strip to the west. Bathroom right off the front door to the right, kitchen to the left which lead into the living room and then the bedroom to the right of the living room. One neat square and it was her home for now till she decided to leave again.

It was middle of the night as she let herself in, sighing as she closed the door and closed the three locks. She didn't really bother with the lights as she kicked off her shoes, losing three inches of height as she walked into her living room and dropped her purse on the small square table. Then she sighed, rubbing her hands over her face as she stood there in the silence and the dark, missing her old life and a family that used to be there when she got home. Now what did she have?

If Sylar could read minds, he would have told her that, of course, she had him. He'd been the closest thing to a constant companion as she would ever have, after all, stalking her every time she moved, finding her even if it took him months. Why he refused to relent, even he couldn't say--it wasn't as though Claire had anything he wanted anymore, having taken that from her a long time ago--but it didn't change the fact that he did, following whatever connection was between them whenever he could.

Which probably explained why he was lounging in her kitchen at that very moment, listening to her breath, watching her silhouette as she kicked off her shoes. And he couldn't help but wonder just how long it would take for her to turn on the lights or, at very least, to realize she was being watched.

It didn't take long. Her hands stilled on her face as she felt a slight chill creep down her spine, causing a little shiver to take over her body as she became aware of another body in her apartment. She didn't need to lower her hands to look because she knew who it was. She always knew when he was nearby, she felt it right inside of her, deep. She hated him for that, she didn't know why he continued to follow her. He never really answered her but then again, what answer could she give? She was just as guilty as him because sometimes she turned to the table and followed him somewhere. She always said to get revenge but they never stopped the game entirely.

After a moment, she lowered her hands down and didn't bother to really turn to look at him. "Didn't take you nearly as long this time." She replied dryly, finally sliding her eyes over to look at him through the darkness, "Are we really going to do this again?" She sounded almost weary, "For eternity?"

( "I'm getting better," he shot back, offering her a grin as he took a step forward, putting himself in a sliver of light that shone in through the windows. )

Twenty years ago, the Chelsea Piers had been a disaster area of collapsing sea walls, half-destroyed warehouses, and rickety boardwalks. Ten years ago, the city of New York had restored the place to its former glory, in the wake of its failed demolition. And now? Well, it's not the best neighborhood in the world, bordered by the Meat Packing District, but for the purposes of this exercise, Sylar figures it suits. It gives him free reign to kill anyone who bothers them, without fear of guilt, after all, and well. There probably won't be anyone around in the first place; most people still avoid this section of town.

The corners of his mouth tugging upwards into a pleased, wicked smile, he meanders down the boardwalk, heading for a warehouse he knows to be abandoned. It looks relatively rickety, like it's going to fall into the bay at any given moment, but he knows better--it's held up to super powered spars before. Still, that doesn't stop him from pausing outside of it, once he reaches it, to give it a once over. Nor does it stop him from taking a look inside, just to make sure there aren't squatters hanging around.

Then, once he's satisfied, he moves to the center of the room, leaning against a crate, listening for his niece. And to his credit, he manages to stand still for all of a minute and a half before he gets restless enough to start considering very literally climbing the walls. Hopefully, Claire will show up soon.

They had been on the lam for somewhere around seven days now, and already, Sylar was tired of hotel rooms. Not that he had anything against relative comfort in comparison to how he usually spent his nights on the run, holed up in stolen houses or cars--he'd even slept in the cab of an 18-wheeler once. It was just different that how he was used to operating, normally. Foreign to the point that it made him slightly uncomfortable, and all because it wasn't part of the plan.

He wouldn't argue it, though. Mohinder needed somewhere with a real bed and running water still, what with the still-healing wound at his shoulder. And, were he to stick to his usual seedy haunts, the risk of infection or death rose substantially--something that wouldn't do, all things considered. Funny that he should be concerned with a neck that wasn't his own, really, but true nevertheless.

Just like it was true that, if he expected to keep his own head over the course of the next twelve hours, he'd need to teach the Indian some measure of control over his newfound telekinesis. Because the way things were looking now, watching him scribble hurriedly on a notepad they'd found in their room when they'd gone up? It would be a miracle if the geneticist didn't accidentally put the pen through his head or his own; there had already been a few mishaps to that effect.

Making a face, he moved over to the other man and pressed his fingers to his shoulder, lightly. "Mohinder."

Over the course of the last few weeks, Sylar had learned that he really had little use for sleep. His mind, as always, corrected itself to fight off mental exhaustion and now, with his newfound immortality, his body knew how to outwit physical tiredness. He supposed the latter had something to do with the fatigue toxins that plagued normal people and that, since they were technically a poison, he healed around it. Though while this fact was nothing short of useful, he found it made it harder to actually get to sleep and stay there, when he wanted to, to kill time.

Tonight, however, he found he wasn't having such a problem. For any number of reasons, most of them centered around Mohinder.

The fact that he'd exhausted himself, pushing the limits of his telekinesis in order to help the geneticist test the extremes of his new powers, his brain not quite having caught up with the strain, yet. That he'd had to restrain himself for the better part of two days, so that he didn't kill him - particularly when he saw what the Indian was capable of. The want and wanting that had followed in other ways, a suitable substitute for his rage, and being left sated on Suresh's workbench. Their mental connection. And so on and so forth.

So, tangled in the other man's limbs with New York's holocaust spread out under them, he allowed himself to slip into sleep, slowly. His thoughts died one by one, like the lights in a room going out, but even so, the telepathic link he'd forged between himself and Mohinder stayed open. Clearly, despite his issues when he'd first integrated the power, he was functioning at the top of his game now, if he could manage it even while unconscious.

And thanks to this fact, Mohinder could probably feel the exact second the killer moved from simply dozing to dreaming.

It had all gone according to plan. Well, mostly.

While, true, he hadn't been expecting Elle to come flying through the door of Suresh's workshop and try to kill him, he'd still made his escape. He'd lived. He'd managed to protect the case with the vial of the cheerleader's blood, even as he'd gone through the glass. And, though an alley just blocks from that whole mess hadn't exactly been his idea of the best place to reclaim what the Company had taken from him, it was enough. He had his powers back. That was all that mattered and hitches in the plan were the least of his concerns.

Or so he thought.

Sylar hadn't been expecting them to coming looking for him. Not so soon, he'd thought, as the Company had miles of red tape and rules and regulations concerning this sort of thing. And they wouldn't dare, not when the electric bitch ran home and told them he'd reclaimed his Godly mantle. They had seen what he'd done to Bennet and his doctor friend. They wouldn't risk it, and as such, he hadn't so much as turned his head to see who was coming down the alley.

He should have. If he had, he might have seen Elle. As it was, however, all he managed was a flash of blonde hair, the scent of ozone, and a roll of thunder. His vision went blurry as she hit him the first time, and then black as she struck him again. And when he came to, it was a nightmare made real.

The cell was too familiar, all white-gray walls and confining space. They'd taken his clothing, replaced it a standard issue t-shirt and pants and nothing more. They hadn't even bothered with shoes. Too dangerous, as he might use them as a weapon to break the glass of the observation window that sat just inches from the bed. Ridiculous, since when he'd pulled Eden through that very same glass last time, he'd been fairly sure nothing short of a bullet would have pierced it, but he understood.

He understood all too well that he was the Company's prisoner. Again.

Raising a hand to the glass, he pushed every violent thought in his head - and there were so many of them - in the direction of the window, willing it to shatter. Nothing happened. He'd been expecting as much, but it didn't stop some bastard child of panic and rage from uncoiling in the pit of his stomach. He'd just gotten his powers back. This wasn't fair. He'd kill them all, the second he was out of here, just to prove a point. But first, he was intent on slamming his mind up against the glass again and again until mental exertion and lack of a result made him dizzy.

He didn't know how they were doing it. There were no IVs this time and he didn't feel as physically ill as he had when they'd given him the virus. He didn't know, but it didn't matter. He'd just wait until someone came along to see him, and then he'd break out and he'd make everything fine again.

And that in mind, he settled down on the slab of the bed they'd given him, pulled his knees up to his chest, and watched the door.