Sylar

The cabin attendant had been afraid.

It was the first thing he came aware of, when his hand touched the kid's skin, and it hit him like a shock of cold water on a warm day. He supposed on some level, in the part of his mind that was still his for the moment, that it was to be expected--the boy had been murdered, after all--but he'd been braced for something else. For pain, but no fear, the whole thing over too quick for the attendant to really realized what was happening until he'd been in hell for thirty seconds, like his usual kills were, when he wasn't savoring the moment. Like the waitress in Odessa had been. Or Sprague, if you discounted the fact that he'd flipped the truck they'd been escorting him in beforehand.

He supposed, however, that not every killer had the same finesse he did, and so he tried to push through the fear, fingers shifting just a bit on the boy's skin in an attempt to give him a better grip on himself, even as he watched the scene before him. A deep breath followed, and then he was racing down the deck toward only God knew where, fueled by the memory and his own insatiable curiosity, rather than simply running like a bat out of hell like the other man was. Not that either of them got particularly far, stopped by the rise of walls that neither of the attendant hadn't seen--and therefore neither had he, as this wasn't his memory--until it had been too late. The idiot had trapped himself in a dead end.

The attendant turned, breathless, and he followed suit, peering into the strange shadows the lights on deck cast. Silence and a shiver of hope that maybe he--they--had escaped followed, and then at the far end of the hallway, one of the lights died, fizzling as if it had been submerged underwater for too long. The one opposite it followed. Then the next pair, closer to them. Then the next.

Terror reasserted itself, and Sylar cast a glance at the man whose memory he was stealing as he stiffened before fumbling for the mess of keys at his side. And while he wasn't sure if it was simple intuition or a tie to the vision, he could tell that the attendant was hoping to let himself into the nearest room, to avoid whatever was out there in the dark. They were close enough to possible safety, after all, and the man had to have the right key, didn't he? Neither of them seemed to know, but it didn't stop the kid from wheeling on his heels again, back towards the cabin he'd trapped them against, stuffing one key after another into the lock, hoping one of them would work.

In the end, he found the right key, but it came a second too late, as suddenly he was choking. Sylar followed suit, caught by the ghosts of what had happened and unable to remind himself that this wasn't real.

Lungs burning, his head spinning, the killer sucked in a sharp breath, trying to cry out, but he found he couldn't. Nor could he cough, as his chest was demanding he at least try. He twitched--possibly in the memory, possibly physically back where he was sure his body was abandoning him--and then dug his nails into his fingers, sharply, as the realization finally sunk in that none of this wasn't actually happening. And when he came back to himself, apparently never having moved from where he'd crouched by the dead attendant, it occurred to Sylar that he knew exactly how the boy had died.

"He drown."

Before West could point it out, he knew that wasn't quite proper English, but his head was still buzzing from the shadow of the attendant's death. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself and his breathing so he could correct himself, but his traveling companion beat him to the punch, one eyebrow raised curiously. "He ... drown ... ed?"

Somehow, Sylar managed to summon up a wry smile. "I was using broken English."

Not that it mattered, nor did the rest of the conversation, really. What was important that someone else on the ship was like them, and whoever it was, they were giving super powered psychopaths like him a bad name.


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 727
Note: Written as a companion piece to this. West is ihavea_theory, naturally.

He had kept them moving, so that they wouldn't be caught, but in three weeks--almost a month, if you wanted to get technical--they hadn't really gone anywhere. It was dangerous keeping them in the same state, even if they'd moved around it, he knew, but he needed time to think. There were too many questions he couldn't answer, after all, and he wanted at least a handful of solid answers before he took any action.

How had this Rebel person found them? Why Claire, when he'd walked away from the grudge months ago, and had no intention of going back to it until he was damn good and ready? If Rebel had found them, who could say whether or not Nathan's men would, too? What if this was someone on the eldest Petrelli's side, and the message had been a trap, hoping to pique his interest long enough to lure him into it? There other, more direct attempts hadn't worked, after all, and while he didn't figure that Nathan could do subtle, considering some of the things he'd heard and seen in the last month, it was still a possibility.

Sighing, Brian--Sylar--whatever the hell he was supposed to be calling himself, these days--shot a dirty look at West's laptop where it sat, sans its owner, on the hotel room desk. West. Always West when they were in private, because sometimes the idiot boy made him wonder whether or not he was developing a split personality, and he wanted to put a stop to that. Just like he should have put a stop to the boy bringing the computer with him, when he'd taken him from his house, back when this had all started. It was a liability, just like the kid's cell phone had been, and he'd made him get rid of that--he'd destroyed it, actually, but who was counting?--so why didn't he do the same with this?

He couldn't answer that one, either, but at least it was one small annoyance he could take care of.

Pulling himself to his feet, he moved over to the computer, silently. A quick, cautious glance was cast at the bed, where West remained asleep, and understandably so, since another look, this one at the clock beside him, informed him that it was nearly four in the morning. Then, content in both the time--he had a few hours until the kid woke up--and the fact that he hadn't stirred, he lowered himself to the chair at the desk silently, and pulled the computer into his lap.

A moment later, he had it on; he wanted to make this look like an accident, rather than purposeful, malicious property destruction. He got as far as opening the folder containing the contents of the hard drive when the screen went black, and if he looked surprised, it was only because it hadn't been his fault.

Frowning down at the screen, he did nothing for a long moment, half-expecting the machine to right itself on its own, and when it didn't, he hit the escape key. Nothing. Then the tried and true control-alt-delete. Still nothing. His sour expression deepening, he tried to think of what other combination of keys would produce some sort of result, but he didn't have long to consider, as words were suddenly spreading out over the black, one keystroke at a time.

They're coming. Wake him up and go. You have five minutes. _

The whole computer powered itself down, then. The lights in the room--in the entire motel, if he could trust his hearing--followed suit a moment later, leaving him in quiet, cold dark. And after a second of letting his eyes adjust, he was on his feet, laptop in one hand, the bag West usually kept it in in the other, trying to pack up so they could take it with them. He may have thought the thing a liability just minutes before, but now it was a lifeline, and hell if he was going to leave it behind.

"West," he snarled, and the youth stirred, muttering something under his breath, before rolling over. He didn't hesitate in shoving his partner of the bed with vicious thoughts. "Get up."

"What?" He was awake now, and staring at him, wide-eyed and wounded.

"We need to go. Now."

"You serious?" he asked, though despite his disbelief, he didn't hesitate to scramble to his feet, grabbing his messenger bag from where he'd left it by the nightstand. Sylar didn't answer; he just shoved the laptop at West and then headed for the door. They'd have to get out of the state now, just to be safe, but as he moved out of the room and caught sight of the black van down on the street, he could content himself in the fact that he at least had one of the answers he was looking for.

Whoever this Rebel person was, they weren't working for Nathan Petrelli.


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 822
Note: West is ihavea_theory and is used with permission.