Sylar

It's like standing next to a sinkhole, or at least that's the first thought he has, as he eases into Baileigh's mind, weaving between the spaces in her thought process, gently. There's conscious thought process all around him, solid and fluid, as she wonders what the hell he's doing, staring at her like that, but that's it. That's all there is, before there's empty black, reaching up for him, hungrily, as he peers into it, as if it's trying to pull him down, too. He nearly twitches, the motion reflexive like that feeling of falling right before falling asleep, and takes a mental step backwards, canting his head to one side, studying her. This is not what he expected at all.

He'd expected a knot of memory, so tangled it was impossible to pull it apart, to see what had been there originally. It would have taken time to undo, like working the kinks out of a ball of yarn, but he was sure it was possible. Now, though, with that space in her head, he's not sure. He can't do anything if there's nothing to work with in the first place.

He frowns, casting a glance back at Sark, who hasn't moved from the door frame where he's been leaning since he came in, and then returns his attentions to Baileigh. His eyes search her face for a moment, trying to find a new approach, not wanting to give up so easily, and it hits him like flash. The proverbial light bulb going on in a dark room.

"They say that memory has strong ties to scent," he says, not sure who, exactly, he's addressing, if he's speaking to either of them, specifically, at all. "It's why, when some people smell cookies baking, they think of their mothers. Or their grandmothers."

Baileigh nods slowly, frowning. "... Ok."

"Just bear with me."

It's meant to be a reassurance, and while he's not sure how well it works, it doesn't stop him.

Taking a deep breath, he sifts through the gaps in her mind again, stepping up to that blank space where memory once was. He doesn't bother staring into it this time, though, instead immediately conjuring to mind memories of Christmas. They're his own, but they're full of emotion, picked up through a power he still hasn't gotten a handle on. Full of light, happier moments for all of them, and the smell of Claire's cooking, the latter of which he takes care to emphasize, hoping the whole scent-memory relation is more than a myth. Then, slowly, he weaves them into the dark spaces in her mind, trying to bring recognition back into her eyes.

And, for an instant, there's a spark of something. For an instant, and then it all crumbles away, whatever he managed to kindle falling into the black hole her mind has become.

His frown deepens and he tries again, this time with a less cluttered setting--their meeting for drinks when they talked about their respective histories. It's a little harder to pin a certain scent on this one, his senses not as sharp as they were come Christmas, but he finally manages, focusing on the smell of alcohol. This time, however, there's no change in the way she looks, whatever did this to her snuffing it out before it can help.

Again and again, he tries, failing each time, frustration rising in his heart with each useless attempt, until finally he pushes away from the table, a snarl on his lips. He's sure he hears Baileigh jump, unable to remember that he's prone to violent outbursts when things don't go his way, but he ignores it, stalking over to Sark. He's silent for a moment, practically bristling like a cat, and then finally, he deflates, sighing.

"No luck?" Sark asks, one eyebrow raised, coolly.

He shakes his head. "Show me the books you mentioned."


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 647
Note: Sark is elementof_risk, Baileigh is baileigh_solis, and both are used with permission.