heroslayer | Entries tagged with roleplay: incomplete

He doesn't like this.

Sylar knows he needs help if he's going to take on Parkman and Petrelli -- he might be smarter than both of them, but they're better armed, and he's never been good at fighting on two fronts -- but people don't just offer people like him help without a catch. Arthur's going to want something from him in return, and as good as he usually is about repaying kindness where kindness is offered, he likes to do it on his own terms. He wants to be the one who decides what and when people get something out of him, not have a debt held over his head, and he knows that's how it's going to go with Arthur. The Petrelli patriarch's already tried it, feeding him some bullshit story about how he's his son to him over the phone to try and make him feel obligated, and he doesn't owe him a damn thing yet. It can only get worse from here on out, he figures, and it's not like he can't find Suresh on his own. He's done it before, biding his time until the heroes let their guard down and move on to more important things, and he's got all the time in the world to wait now. They don't.

Unfortunately, however, neither does Suresh and as angry as he is, he's not too keen on waiting to reclaim what's his and what should belong to him, and that probably explains why, against his better judgement, he gets out of the car and stalks up to the building. If this goes badly, he'll just kill Arthur and go his own way. He makes a show of making sure Arthur knows that's in the cards, too, blowing the door off the hinges as he reaches it in a disturbing display of power. Arthur told him not to kill anyone on his way up here, and he didn't, but he never said he couldn't wreck his little house of cards when he got here.

Something shatters downstairs.

The sound is faint, not a window breaking but a cup, but it's enough to cut through the haze of faint awareness he's been floating in for the last few days and drag him gasping into full alertness. He lays there for a moment, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to wrap his head around the sound and the odd, displaced feeling that comes with waking up somewhere you can't remember ever being, and then there's another crash from downstairs. He sits up abruptly, glaring holes in the twilight of the room, straining to listen.

He hears voices but nothing else, not even with his hearing, his focus shot to hell and wrapped in cotton, but it's enough to put him on edge. He can remember Samuel now and everything move he's made against them since he and Claire walked out of that damnable carnival, and he's quick to assume that they're under attack again. The barker has sent his cronies after them or come himself again, and he won't stand for it.

He moves to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and winces once he manages, teeth gritting, his muscles crying out from months and months of disuse. He ignores the pain, however, not even sure why it hurts in the first place, and staggers to his feet, a hand going to the nightstand to steady himself. And once he feels certain enough standing, he lets go, pushing away to move towards the door.

He gets exactly three steps away before the IV line tugs at his hand, and the shock of it is enough to send him off balance. He sprawls to the floor gracelessly, a snarl on his lips, and the voices downstairs stop abruptly.

A long, tense moment follows and then the sound of someone coming up the stairs chases the silence away. The door opens cautiously a moment later, and Peter pokes his head in, backlit by strange, flickering light. When he steps into the room, he realizes it's coming from the flames lapping harmlessly at his fingertips. He hums, amused, and tries to drag himself to his feet again.

"Whoa, hey." Peter is by his side in an instant, the fire at his hand dying suddenly, and wraps his arms around his waist. He doesn't even try to claw his way free as Peter hauls him back up to the bed. "Take it easy. You've been out of it for awhile."

Confused, he stares at Peter, trying to work out what the hell he means by that, and it all filters back to him slowly, a chill creeping up his spine as each snippet of memory returns. Giving Peter his original ability back. Passing out afterward. All of it. He opens his mouth to ask the other man just how long it's been, but he misses his chance, Peter sliding away from him to rush towards the door.

He pushes it open widely, yelling down the stairs, "Claire! He's awake!"

And Sylar can't help the stab of annoyance that follows when he realizes he must have been out of play for quite some time.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 526
Note: Pretty sure the ex isn't stalking me and my muses anymore, so ... Peter is

hadtobeahero and all mine to use and abuse.

Considering her ability, it really hadn't surprised him that Angela hadn't come to the door. He was disappointed maybe, given the trouble he'd gone to putting on Peter's face especially for her, but he wasn't surprised. He only wondered if she knew who he was bringing with him and what she was capable of. He wanted something out of this beyond her ability and her head on a stick, and it really wouldn't be any fun at all if Angela knew all about the ace he had up his sleeve, too.

Sighing, he cast Gabriella a sideways glance and leaned into the door, pantomiming the use of a key while he picked the lock, and let them in. The door closed on its own behind them, Sylar unwilling to turn to close it manually on the off chance that Angie had set up an ambush in the foyer. There was nothing, however, the house apparently silent and dark, save for the lines of prying mid-morning sun that crept in through ornate security doors, and he frowned. She could have at least had the decency to be waiting for them when they came in. He supposed, though, that that was Angela for you -- a bitch to a fault, even when her fate was sealed.

He moved towards the stairs at the other end of the room, leaning on the banister as his eyes wandered up the spiral staircase.

"Angela," he sing-songed sweetly, not bothering to trade out Peter's voice for his own. Knowing it was him or not, he could just imagine the look on her face -- the look of horrified betrayal -- when he killed her wearing the face of her sole surviving son. He would have smiled at the thought, too, if the bitch would just give some indication of where she was.

Oh, well. It had been such a long time since he'd had a proper hunt.

Turning away from the stairs, he looked first to the front door again, the locks on it and everywhere else in the house snapping shut in unison with an ominious click, then raised his eyes to Gabriella. Finally, slowly, he offered her a wicked grin. "Guess she wants to play hide and seek."

He'd let her sleep until somewhere nearing nine o'clock the next morning, occupying his own time spent awake thumbing through a book, sure that it was the safest of all of his options. She'd gotten up, surprisingly without complaint, taken a few minutes to get her bearings, then slipped out the door to bring back the breakfast she'd promised him the night before. He wasn't sure why she hadn't asked what he'd wanted, whether she figured they liked the same things or if she'd simply forgotten, but it had amused him just the same.

Returning to the couch, a hint of a smile on his face, he'd pulled his book back into his lap and waited for her to return. And some twenty minutes later she had, carrying two take-out plates full of surprisingly decent pancakes and a half gallon of ice cream -- for the pancakes, of course. They'd moved into the kitchen and she'd pestered him into telling the rest of his life story as they ate.

Now out of words, or at least things he could talk about without having to edit immensely, the sat in silence as they finished up their breakfast. After a moment, though, he couldn't help but suggest, "Your turn."

Despite the fact that it had been Sylar's suggestion that he and Peter meet to discuss things, he found he wasn't particularly looking forward to the meeting. Not that he didn't feel he had a lot to say to his brother, both of them far too busy to talk much lately, or that it wasn't important that they did discuss the state of things. No, this was more because in the light of the last few days, he didn't particularly want to talk to anyone. He hadn't gone to visit Claire, as was usual for him, he'd been keeping his walks home with Molly after school as brief as possible, and he'd refrained from lurking around Times Square to people watch. For the first time in a very long time--since right after his ability had manifested, actually--the city and its inhabitants felt stifling, and he wanted nothing to do with any of it.

Unfortunately, however, he had told Peter he'd come and find him, and so now he was obligated. And the fact that he was clearly unhappy with this was more than apparent in the way he carried himself as he moved down the street towards Adam's apartment. His brother would probably notice, he knew--if not through simply people-reading skills than empathically--but he couldn't bring himself to care. Nor could he quite bring himself to make a decision as to whether or not he'd tell his twin what his problem was, if prompted for answers. He supposed he'd simply decide when the time came.

And that in mind, frowning, the killer stepped up to Adam's door and knocked, hoping that Peter came to answer it, not particularly wanting to deal with more people than he had to.

To say that Sylar's apartment had clearly been abandoned for some time would have been an understatement. A fine layer of dust coated everything, dulling everything from the furniture to the walls in such a way that the room looked like an old photograph. Spiders had taken up residence in the corners of the room at one point, and then vacated, leaving dark, filthy cobwebs in their wake. And as they pushed into the apartment, they left footprints in the grime. It was a mess, and immediately, the killer frowned; he was nothing if not cleanly, and this was a disaster.

"Guess I haven't been home in awhile," he commented dryly, casting a look back at Mohinder. "Give me a minute, and I'll clean up." They needed this space, after all, and he was more than certain that the geneticist wouldn't want the dust and disuse skewing the results of his research.

That in mind, he moved into the kitchen, shifting the microscope he'd been carrying into one hand, so he had use of the other. Then, with an almost idle gesture, the layer of grime on the table was scattering to the floor, motes of dust swirling to the wood floors like fine falling snow. Unfortunately, however, this didn't seem to be enough for the killer, as before the dust had even settled, he was moving for the cabinet under the sink, hoping he could find something to wipe the table down with.

If he still had his cleaning supplies, this wouldn't take long at all.

(Continued from here since Nathan!mun and I broke my comments. Oops.)

"I'm sorry," he offered again, this time louder, before taking another sip of his wine. And after a moment of silence, he said," I killed my mother. Or the woman I thought was my mother, anyway."

He knew that was relatively out of the blue, but he felt he owed Nathan something, even if he'd been trying to give him an out to talking about what had happened to Linderman. An eye for an eye. And since he'd been so keen on sharing his deep, dark past, Sylar felt he could at least tell him about one of his bad and entirely painful choices.

"It was an accident."

In all honesty, Sylar had no idea why he'd been so adamant on meeting with Bennet in the first place.

He had no reason to love the man, after all, no reason to care, when he fell in the same category as Nakamura, both of them people to be hated rather than to try and make amends with. Perhaps Bennet was worse, in a way, even. The man had tortured him, deliberately and to death, despite the fact that it was revenge, which he understood, and he'd survived, his brain having forced his heart to start beating again. He'd also threatened Mohinder, from what his geneticist had told him, hurt the Indian when he had very clear rules about what happened to people who touched the things that were his.

Bennet was worse than Nakamura because the damn Japanese kid hadn't done what he'd done with malicious intent where the man in the hornrimmed glasses had, and yet here he was, getting off a plane from Manhattan to meet the sonovabitch at a coffee shop in Costa Verde. He'd even offered to let him walk away with his life, just this once, and for what? Because he was important to Claire? Because he wanted to rub it in that it had been him that had saved Baileigh, when he'd sat around and been powerless? Because he wanted certain assurances, threatened out of Bennet or given freely, that he'd leave Suresh alone?

He didn't know. And as he had when he'd gone to visit Molly in her dreams, he was immediately regretting his decisions, all too willing to blame it on outside factors.

At least it was a coffee shop they were meeting at. It wasn't his usual, nor was it the one that Claire worked at that he'd taken up frequenting to bother his niece, but he could still make it work in his favor. Coffee shops always did, regardless of whether or not they were on his home turf.

Sighing, unhappy, he thumbed idly at his carry-on--he hadn't bothered with an overnight bag as he was catching the first flight back, once this was over--he moved to the row of pay phones outside, and looked up the number for a cab company. Then, once he'd called for a pick up, he moved to the curb outside, shifting from one foot to the other, restlessly, as he waited for the car to come.

And sooner rather than later, he in the cab and then out, heading into the coffee shop Bennet had specified, every inch of him on edge, ready for a fight, just in case Bennet couldn't keep his word.

He's more than a little reluctant to leave the loft, especially when he's only managed a few hours with Mohinder this time around, but it's part of the deal. He gets to try and coax Molly into talking to him in her dreams, sworn to pull out if she seems distressed at any time, and Mohinder goes home to keep an eye on her. To be there to reassure her it was only a bad dream, if this doesn't go as planned and she wakes up crying or screaming. He doesn't entirely like this plan, wanting Mohinder with him when he reaches out for her mind, but it was his idea in the first place, meant to assure the geneticist that he has no real malicious intent, and he's bound to it, now.

He walks home in silence, taking the long way, stalling, hating the fact that he's all but forced himself to try and make nice with the brat. His decision, his theory that it could be done, his want to try and reconsile the two halves of Mohinder's life, and he hates it. And he's not sure which is an after-effect of what the monster he hunted for Baileigh: the moment of weakness itself or his disgust at having to go through with it. One is, he's certain--it's so much easier to pin the blame on something else--but he can't tell which.

Either way, however, he takes his time getting ready for bed. He shaves, when he doesn't need to. Lounges around in his living room, checking his cell phone for messages every few minutes, hoping something will come up to get him out of this. Thumbs through a book, idly, only half paying attention to the words on the page. Nothing helps, though, and sooner rather than later, it's nearing midnight and he's out of time to do nothing if he plans on doing anything at all. It's now or never.

Sighing, pushing out of the chair he's been idling in for only God knows how long, and moves to the space he calls his bedroom, even though there are no doors to it. And stretching out on the bed, he takes a moment to get comfortable and clear his thoughts before reaching out for Molly's mind.

He knows what her thoughts feel like, even unconscious, having peeked at her surface thoughts out of boredom more than once while stalking her at school, so she's not hard to find. It's still strange, though, harder, but he can't tell if that has something to do with the distance--he's never tried this on someone so far before--or the fact that she's asleep. Either way, however, he manages, and with a final, slow breath, his consciousness bleeds out and he's asleep with her.

He comes awake somewhere else, jarringly.

When Sylar was a child, his mother had insisted he take swimming lessons at the local community pool. He'd always thought it was stupid since, barring the weeks he'd spent learning, he'd barely ever used the swim club membership Virginia Gray always kept current, and his father had been too constantly busy to bother with a vacation to the beach. Though, even if he had seen water more frequently, he still would have thought the lessons a massive waste of time, because even though he'd passed the test at the end of them, he wasn't particularly good at swimming. He could tread water well enough, but that was about it.

And standing in the middle of yet another party in a France long forgotten by time, that's exactly what he felt like he was doing. Treading water.

Where he'd had his mother standing by the edge of the pool before, however, now he was completely on his own. He hadn't seen Reinette yet tonight--she was probably and understandably spending time with her King--and he didn't really know anyone else in the court. Oh, he knew a few names and knew that a few people knew his, pointing fingers and whispering when they thought he couldn't hear them, but he'd never actually spoken to any of them for more than a few minutes.

This was a shark tank, and he was drowning, alone.

Frowning at the thought, he pushed through the crowds, out to the very same balcony where he'd met Reinette, and leaned on the railing, pretending to take interest in the gardens as he considered simply leaving. Going home, back to his time. Getting out of this ridiculous costume Reinette had found for him, weeks before, and back into his old clothes, so he could get back to work. Places to go, people to kill, after all, and anything would be better than this, but as per usual, something stopped him. His promise to the good madame.

When they'd first met, she'd tried to send him away--expected him to want to go--and he hadn't then. He'd told her he'd stay, and he was, generally, a man of his word, when he wanted to be. The honorable villain, if he could even be considered a bad guy anymore, so fascinated with the clockwork in her head that he hadn't killed a single person the entire time he'd been here. He'd promised, and so he'd stay, even if it meant sulking out on the balcony, pointedly avoiding the scavengers inside.

And with any luck, Reinette would show up soon.

(Continuing from this, since

youngerpetrelli and I kinda broke my comments. Eheh. Oops?)

Sylar nodded. "I did, yes. But not because Nakamura stabbed me."

He tried to keep himself from sneering, really he did, but in the end, he couldn't stop his lips from twisting, albeit marginally. There was simply too much hate, when it came to the little, sword-wielding sonovabitch. And, even beyond that, there were too many bad memories centered around Kirby Plaza--even beyond his defeat and near-death.

"The Company found me," he explained after a pause. "They took me to Mexico. Stitched me up, where I'd been stabbed. And then gave me some kind of virus that took my abilities away."

The wind from this height was nothing short of frigid, but he supposed that was nothing surprising. The weather in Colorado was oftentimes fickle, particularly where winters were concerned, and the air here had long since cleared of any smog that might have held warmth to the city. Couple that with the fact that lightning had struck here years back, burning down a fair part of it - this building seemed to be the only thing with any height, still standing - and well. What remained of Denver was all too willing to hold a chill.

Sylar, however, seemed nothing short of unconcerned.

It didn't matter. His skin would heal itself - was healing itself - from the wind burn, and there was no way he could die of hypothermia or anything along those lines. Not anymore. Not for years. Not since Adam had offered him his gift, decades ago.

At the time it had been everything he'd ever wanted, his fear of death forever banished. He wouldn't have to lust after the cheerleader and her power from afar, because he wasn't allowed to take it. He'd never have to worry about any injury, which was something that was a distinct possibility, from fixing the power in New York to the wild dogs that had come with that first spring. He'd never have to grow old and die. He was immortal. Eternal. Infinite. Forever younger than thirty and loving every second of it.

And he'd been so high on power at the time that he hadn't seen the one hitch in his plan. His attachment to Mohinder.

It had taken him years to notice, really. He'd been so blind that he'd ignored the fact that the geneticist had taken to wearing glasses when he read or the gray hairs that had started appearing in his hair. He hadn't noticed, still saw him as the man he'd met in Virginia Beach all those years ago, until Suresh had gotten sick. And by then it was far, far too late. Mohinder had fallen apart in his arms, succumbing to old age, and he'd come to the city in the wake of his love's death to try and find a way to end his own life.

So far, it hadn't been going very well. All he'd managed to do was throw himself off of a building, this building, three times. He'd broken every bone in his body, every time. And while he knew how to work his ability far better than Adam did, so much so that he could turn it on and off at will - usually when he wanted to keep the marks the Indian left on him after they slept together - his body revolted every time he hit pavement. It was like putting too much weight on wet rice paper. He sustained a mortal wound, even when the ability was off, and it snapped back on to ensure his continued survival. It was turning out to be more curse than gift.

He sighed at the thought, breath caught in frigid air for a moment, before shuffling towards the edge of the roof. Did he really want to throw himself off the building again? The pain wasn't doing much for him, not taking the edge off the ache in his chest in the least, and he clearly wasn't going to die, so why bother? Why bother.

Another sigh, and instead of throwing himself off the roof a fourth time, he settled down on the ledge, feet dangling down over the remains of the city. He'd stay here awhile and think. About what, he didn't know, but that was what he had done when upset, once upon a time.