[Fic] Anti-Climax
Aug. 24th, 2007 09:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Anti-Climax
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Sylar
Word Count: 1,000
Rating: PG-13 for two naughty words.
Summary: Sylar, after
Spoilers: Season 1, pretty much.
Sylar had moved by turns and staggered steps, being washed along by the tide of sewage and muck as much as he was moving under his own power. All of his will was focused on the movement of one foot in the other and the telekinetic grip he had on his inner workings.
Broken.
He was broken, but he could fix it. He could. It just needed time. Time and
and
and to be able to breathe without choking on his own blood. He had a leak somewhere. Stop and fix it. Plug it up.
There.
Sylar laughed. He hadn't thought the little guy would be able to do it. But he had. With a battle cry that would have made the cartoon enthusiasts proud, he'd skewed the bad guy on his magic sword. Only Sylar wasn't the bad guy.
But the world hadn't ended in fire and fallout, so he guessed they'd managed to stop it somehow. He wondered what had happened. What they'd done to achieve that effect.
His feet were soaked.
New York City was awash with underground tunnels. Maintenance shafts. Subway tunnels. Sewers. Sylar didn't know them as well as he would have liked, but he'd done a lot of exploring when he was still gathering power. Before Zane. Before the list.
He knew he was special before the man walked into his shop with his list and his strange ideas. DNA, the chains of life, sequencing and splitting chains and they were just all words for the same things. Taking things apart. Putting them back together.
If he concentrated could he manipulate things on the cellular level? The blood flow
Blood. There was blood pooling on the floor at his feet.
He didn't have much more to lose.
Things shifted around inside. He put them back where they were supposed to go. A transfusion. Cautery. He had Ted's power, could he use that as a cauterizing tool? Fine control. He didn't have any control.
Sylar kept moving.
Morning.
He was face down in a pool of mud and blood and grass. He swallowed back dried blood and puke. It tasted better than any milkshake, any grilled cheese sandwich, anything he'd ever tasted. He was alive to taste it, and that made it the nectar of the gods.
It also was a very good sign that he wouldn't be alive much longer if he didn't get moving.
He had made it out of downtown New York over to the docks. It wasn't the ships he was interested in but the warehouses, the cargo holds, the boxes, and what was in them. What wasn't in them. He sacrificed finesse for punching a hole in one of the boxes, curled up on top of a stack of crates. It was warmer than in the sewers. Drier. That was good.
He should have been able to heal himself. Would have been able, if it hadn't been for Peter fucking Petrelli. Peter Petrelli, and his too-pretty face as they stopped him from taking her brain. Taking her power. Becoming invulnerable to anything they could do to him.
Well, Peter fucking Petrelli was a crater on the moon by now, and his brother with him. Good riddance.
Good riddance to Sylar. Ridding. Riddled with holes.
His diaphragm clenched. His throat squeezed. Bile and saliva dribbled out over cracked lips, more saliva than bile. Precious liquids he couldn't afford to lose.
He took a breath, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate. Fine control. Something Peter Fucking Petrelli had never learned, but he had to. Find the cored center of his body. Find the places the sword had cut. Pinch them shut. Seal them with fire.
By the time it was over he had passed out three times and no longer even had water left in his mouth to dribble out. But he wasn't bleeding anymore. There might be infection. He might tear open some of the wounds again, but he was no longer in immediate danger. That, he guessed, was something. He was
Sylar. He was Sylar.
Sleeping on filth. Make ice for water to drink. Condense it out of the air. Shiver in the cold.
Steal frozen meals off the truck. Nuke 'em in your hands. Smile at the thought of using a bomb to cook a potato.
Lonely. Achingly lonely. And angry.
Men and women blur together on the sidewalk. Strong enough to move around, no resources. Not yet. No infection, either.
He wants to reach out and touch someone. He has a place now, a studio apartment. The body's in the dumpster, naked and dismembered. It'll be a while before they find him, let alone identify him.
He walks on the street, stealing food, stealing cash. He can get away with paying cash for rent, and does.
He doesn't know who's special and who's not anymore.
He misses Mohinder. At least the other man talked to him.
Pieces of Sylar, even pieces of the long-dead Gabriel are breaking off and floating away behind him. He doesn't know what to do now. He had no list, no knowledge of where his enemies are, if they're even alive. No idea what happened. No idea what to do.
Signs are everywhere, asking what happened to Congressman Nathan Petrelli. Sylar could have told them but they wouldn't listen. No one ever listens.
The world moves on in its slow, trundling pace, and not in great leaps of discovery as he thought it would. He's having an anti-climax.
There should be something. A celebration, a victory. No one knew how close to death they'd come, no one but a handful of people who were never more than a hand's span away from self-destruction anyway. There should be something. But he has nothing.
There should be something for the man who could be anything. See into people. See what makes them tick.
He can do so much and he doesn't know what to do. So much hate.
There should be something.
But there isn't.
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Sylar
Word Count: 1,000
Rating: PG-13 for two naughty words.
Summary: Sylar, after
Spoilers: Season 1, pretty much.
Sylar had moved by turns and staggered steps, being washed along by the tide of sewage and muck as much as he was moving under his own power. All of his will was focused on the movement of one foot in the other and the telekinetic grip he had on his inner workings.
Broken.
He was broken, but he could fix it. He could. It just needed time. Time and
and
and to be able to breathe without choking on his own blood. He had a leak somewhere. Stop and fix it. Plug it up.
There.
Sylar laughed. He hadn't thought the little guy would be able to do it. But he had. With a battle cry that would have made the cartoon enthusiasts proud, he'd skewed the bad guy on his magic sword. Only Sylar wasn't the bad guy.
But the world hadn't ended in fire and fallout, so he guessed they'd managed to stop it somehow. He wondered what had happened. What they'd done to achieve that effect.
His feet were soaked.
New York City was awash with underground tunnels. Maintenance shafts. Subway tunnels. Sewers. Sylar didn't know them as well as he would have liked, but he'd done a lot of exploring when he was still gathering power. Before Zane. Before the list.
He knew he was special before the man walked into his shop with his list and his strange ideas. DNA, the chains of life, sequencing and splitting chains and they were just all words for the same things. Taking things apart. Putting them back together.
If he concentrated could he manipulate things on the cellular level? The blood flow
Blood. There was blood pooling on the floor at his feet.
He didn't have much more to lose.
Things shifted around inside. He put them back where they were supposed to go. A transfusion. Cautery. He had Ted's power, could he use that as a cauterizing tool? Fine control. He didn't have any control.
Sylar kept moving.
Morning.
He was face down in a pool of mud and blood and grass. He swallowed back dried blood and puke. It tasted better than any milkshake, any grilled cheese sandwich, anything he'd ever tasted. He was alive to taste it, and that made it the nectar of the gods.
It also was a very good sign that he wouldn't be alive much longer if he didn't get moving.
He had made it out of downtown New York over to the docks. It wasn't the ships he was interested in but the warehouses, the cargo holds, the boxes, and what was in them. What wasn't in them. He sacrificed finesse for punching a hole in one of the boxes, curled up on top of a stack of crates. It was warmer than in the sewers. Drier. That was good.
He should have been able to heal himself. Would have been able, if it hadn't been for Peter fucking Petrelli. Peter Petrelli, and his too-pretty face as they stopped him from taking her brain. Taking her power. Becoming invulnerable to anything they could do to him.
Well, Peter fucking Petrelli was a crater on the moon by now, and his brother with him. Good riddance.
Good riddance to Sylar. Ridding. Riddled with holes.
His diaphragm clenched. His throat squeezed. Bile and saliva dribbled out over cracked lips, more saliva than bile. Precious liquids he couldn't afford to lose.
He took a breath, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate. Fine control. Something Peter Fucking Petrelli had never learned, but he had to. Find the cored center of his body. Find the places the sword had cut. Pinch them shut. Seal them with fire.
By the time it was over he had passed out three times and no longer even had water left in his mouth to dribble out. But he wasn't bleeding anymore. There might be infection. He might tear open some of the wounds again, but he was no longer in immediate danger. That, he guessed, was something. He was
Sylar. He was Sylar.
Sleeping on filth. Make ice for water to drink. Condense it out of the air. Shiver in the cold.
Steal frozen meals off the truck. Nuke 'em in your hands. Smile at the thought of using a bomb to cook a potato.
Lonely. Achingly lonely. And angry.
Men and women blur together on the sidewalk. Strong enough to move around, no resources. Not yet. No infection, either.
He wants to reach out and touch someone. He has a place now, a studio apartment. The body's in the dumpster, naked and dismembered. It'll be a while before they find him, let alone identify him.
He walks on the street, stealing food, stealing cash. He can get away with paying cash for rent, and does.
He doesn't know who's special and who's not anymore.
He misses Mohinder. At least the other man talked to him.
Pieces of Sylar, even pieces of the long-dead Gabriel are breaking off and floating away behind him. He doesn't know what to do now. He had no list, no knowledge of where his enemies are, if they're even alive. No idea what happened. No idea what to do.
Signs are everywhere, asking what happened to Congressman Nathan Petrelli. Sylar could have told them but they wouldn't listen. No one ever listens.
The world moves on in its slow, trundling pace, and not in great leaps of discovery as he thought it would. He's having an anti-climax.
There should be something. A celebration, a victory. No one knew how close to death they'd come, no one but a handful of people who were never more than a hand's span away from self-destruction anyway. There should be something. But he has nothing.
There should be something for the man who could be anything. See into people. See what makes them tick.
He can do so much and he doesn't know what to do. So much hate.
There should be something.
But there isn't.