Sylar

It had all started accidentally.

He'd snapped again, Claire pushing buttons and piling on the reasons to break rather than helping him, this time. He'd warned her off, of course, but she hadn't listened. She'd just kept pushing until he couldn't be pushed anymore, and he'd flown off the handle, attacking her, what little sanity he'd managed to keep from slipping through his fingers demanding he give her some way of defending herself. And so he'd given her a dance of kitchen knives, perfectly sharpened, though he never used them, swirling around her wildly like leaves in a windstorm.

He'd relented eventually--she made him relent, not holding back this time, where he still was, somehow--both of them on the floor, breathing hard, and he had brought one of the knives over to them. In a fading moment of clarity, he'd offered the knife to her, hoping that she would end him, both of them knowing that within minutes, he'd be back of his feet and in a saner frame of mind. But she'd refused. She wouldn't touch the knife, telling him to do it himself, if he was such a big man, and so he had. Dying helped, it always did, and he couldn't be trusted like this.

It was easy enough to jab the knife through his breast bone into his own heart, his strength fueled by telekinesis and rage in need of an outlet. What hadn't been easy was the last thought that had come before black closed in at the edges of his vision. What hadn't been easy was the memory of how the rope had felt around his neck or the burn of the guilt in his heart, and how he wasn't sure which choked more.

It had left him unsettled, and now here he was, half-sitting and half-sprawled on the couch, eyes fixed on the wall opposite him numbly, distracted and unfocused. On a whim, he pressed his fingers to the cracked crystal of his namesake watch, hoping for some kind of comfort from the thing that had been his constant companion over the course of the last two and a half years.

( It didn't happen; somehow, suddenly, he was somewhere else. )


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 4080
Note: Mohinder is witnessof_fate and is used with permission. Also, I'm tagging this as Canon as well as Choices, since all of the memories fit the former, even if the set-up doesn't. And err, pretend this happened a few days ago, and not on Valentine's Day.

( Cut for spoilers for 3x07 - Eris Quod Sum )


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 316 (with dialogue)
Notes: Special thanks to touch_and_know's mun, who pointed out that you can't con a con before even I realized it. ♥

To date, Elle has tried to kill him three times already.

The first time, he had still been a prisoner of the Company, leashed and led a few times a week for a walk around the proverbial park. He'd just gotten back from assignment, following obediently at Bennet's heels as they navigated the corridors, making a beeline for his cell on Level Five. All had seemed right in the world, except for maybe the fact that they'd come back empty-handed--mom wouldn't be happy--and then the doors behind them had exploded inwards.

Bennet spun, fingers fumbling for his gun, but him? He'd just turned casually as if this sort of thing happened every day. And really, it did. He'd been expecting this, for more than just the fact that he'd heard her heart hammering, murderous intent making her pulse sing in his ears for more than three blocks. She wanted revenge for what he'd done to her father; he couldn't say he blamed her.

Of course, anyone who knew him knew how well attempts at vengeance went with him, and this time was no different. The only thing that had stopped him from killing her--and maybe Bennet, too, as it would be so easy to get rid of the thorn in his side and claim friendly fire--had been Angela showing up with the Haitian.

( The second time, he'd reclaimed a little more of his freedom. )


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1179

Ok, what with new canon airing tonight, I figured I'd get off my rear and write two major meta posts I've been meaning to for awhile, now. The first one, this one, will cover how I see Sylar and how I write him, as of current.

This post will be updated as I discover new facets of the muse, either through what canon dictates, or through simply growth of the character as I write him. If I get Jossed concerning a particular aspect, I'll adjust my view accordingly and strike out anything no longer relevant, as I'd rather not outright delete anything I assume about the character, right now. I'd rather keep it for posterity. I'm weird like that.

Keep in mind that this is strictly my view on him in canon, and does not include my views on him in his various verses. I might talk about those later, in the second post I want to make, but for now? Strictly canon. And, while I don't think this needs to be said honestly, this is player/mun knowledge only.

( Cut for length. )

And if anyone has any specific questions for me, concerning how I play Sylar, feel free to ask. I'll update this list with the answers.

Gabriel had realized he was broken when he'd taken that first look at Brian Davis' head. It had been a slow realization, one that came after the pain and the hysteria had subsided, but it came nevertheless. And the fact that, in stealing the other man's telekinesis, he was a little closer to whole had come shortly after. It was like a puzzle, one half-complete, and with every kill he made and power he stole, he was a step closer to perfection. One jagged-edged, bloodstained piece closer to having what he'd been rightfully denied, to being able to see the whole picture.

What he hadn't realized, however, was that there were far worse ways of being broken than in terms of abilities. Such as psychologically. Such as he was, now, curled in a shuddering ball of watchmaker in the unfinished room at the back of his apartment, fingers sticky with blood.

He hadn't meant to kill Chandra. He'd loved Chandra. So their relationship had been strained, so the man had starting refusing his phone calls again - it didn't matter. The Indian had been the closest thing to a father figure he'd had in years. He'd opened his eyes to a realm of possibility that he'd only dreamed about before. And then he'd taken it all away, by turning him away. He'd been scared of him. He'd betrayed him. He had meant to kill Chandra.

He couldn't decide. It didn't matter.

The one thing that he couldn't find the critcal flaw in was dead. The man he loved with all his boyish heart and hated with every fiber of his being was dead. His hands bore signs of the crime. He'd done it. He'd done it, and all he wanted was for that same said man to walk into the door and tell him it was alright, give him absolution. It would never happen.

Oh, but he burned for forgiveness. He would scream for it - sing and dance for it, if that's what it took - if his throat didn't already ache, voice broken from screaming into his wrists as he hadn't dared to touch his face. Not with these hands. Not with the stain on them. And without Chandra to give it to give him what he so desperately wanted, right now, who would?

His mother? Nononono. Not that. He couldn't deal with that - with her - now. She'd see the grim under his nails, even if he washed his hands, and she'd know. Just as she knew everything he'd done as a child, her eyes everywhere. She'd see how broken he was, what a monster he'd become, and he couldn't deal with that. He'd lost one of his family figures today, he didn't want to push another away, even if she never listened and always saw and made tuna fish sandwiches even though he hated them.

But if not to family, where did monsters go to beg for pardon?

God. He listened to anyone who needed Him, or so he'd learned as a child.

Pulling himself to his knees, shoulders twitching with the weight of what he'd done, he pressed his fingers to the wall, scratching out words. He couldn't go to church, sure the priests would view him with the same merciless attention as his mother, so he would have to leave a message to Him as big as he could manage. As many times as he could manage, like a boy who'd done wrong in school and had to resign himself to writing the same sentence on the black board, over and over.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Forgive me Father for I have sinned. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Forgive me Father ...

He wrote until there was no more blood on his hands. Then he wrote until his hands bled. And in the end, there was no sign from God, no forgiveness that he might have needed. In the end, there was no God.


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 666

Maya's a sloppy kisser, and it bothers him.

He knows he really has no room to talk, his kisses far from practiced, but she's a mess. All tongue and teeth and quiet insistence with her mouth, like this is the first time she's kissed anyone in God knows how long. Which, now that he thinks about it - and he's still thinking, mind working in perfect order despite the fact that he's still missing his abilities and she's crushing her mouth against his - might be a fact. She's wanted for murder, after all. Not a lot of time for romance, under those circumstance. He'd know. But he's also not kissing like a beaver going at a pile of wood, and it gets to a point where he can't contain his disgust.

He makes a face, breaking the kiss, and Maya looks up at him with startled brown eyes, searching his face for a sign of what she's done wrong. And since he can't afford to lose her and her delicious abilities when he gets his back, he feeds her a half-truth. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, looking away from her, quickly. "I ... "

( “Gabriel?” )



Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Verse: Canon
Word Count: 1031