Well, there was no mistake greater than the one right in front of her to take responsibility for. If anyone deserved to kill Elle Bishop, it was the monster she'd created. In the back of her mind, she wondered if her father had found the same serenity, or if he'd just been selfish and ignorant and not realized how poetic it really was. She'd killed Gabriel Gray so long ago by ripping apart his very soul. It was only fair that he did the same to her.
Instead of fighting back, she just shut her eyes, quiet whimpers of pain instead of the screams that might imply she wasn't ready for exactly what was coming causing her lips to tremble and tighten as he drew one hand back and slowly cut into her head. It was slow -- agonizing, really, but not as bad as the tremors from her malfunctioning ability had been. And it was peaceful. The sound of the ocean waves was the last sound she heard as everything slowly went dark and every muscle in her body slowly relaxed, the final whimpers dying in her throat.
And then, all at once, just as soon as the last breath had blown past her lips, it was like she was heaving her very first, eyes wide as she stumbled forward, landing on her knees on cobblestone by an intricately designed fountain -- the teleportation feeling, by now, was old hat. Hiro Nakamura? It was who Sylar had blamed on the beach, but … No. There was no tug this time. Just a sudden fresh breath of life where she had felt it all drain from her. She looked around, taking in her surroundings, reaching up with one hand to find that her head was very much not cut into. Maybe it had all been a bad dream, she wanted to tell herself. That the whole past few weeks had just been some wild quazi-nightmare after her father's death and this was some crappy prank.
Like she was ever that lucky. Slowly, she drew herself back to her feet, looking down at her clothes. Sylar's black button-up and shorts told her that it had been very real, and so did the blood that she could see in her bright blonde, stringy hair in her peripheral vision. What was this, some crappy consolation prize for being so good about accepting death? For welcoming what was coming to her and maybe somehow repenting? Because if this was Heaven, it was a little short on trumpets and crappy horn music.
Not that Elle Bishop had ever really believed in the afterlife, but it was hard to deny when it was right in front of her.
Actually, scratch the Heaven theory. As soon as she became acutely aware of the creeping ticking in the back of her mind, she spun around suddenly, as if trying to accuse someone of being the source of it. Of being some agonizing reminder of the crimes she'd committed in her life. The crimes she'd been forced to commit and willingly fallen into. Gabriel Gray, the watchmaker, haunting her forever in her own personal Hell. She was going to scream. If she didn't know better, she'd say this was his own form of punishment for how she'd lied. If she didn't know better, she'd think he'd stolen Candice's powers on his way back stateside and was now trapping her in a prison of her own mind, forcing her to acknowledge her crimes.
Hell or some purgatory of her overpowered ex boyfriend's creation. Great. Another reminder of what a great life she'd led. As ready as she'd been willing to accept death at Sylar's hands, she was far from willing to accept that she was now destined to live her life out in some ugly city with that obnoxious ticking. The obvious answer was to confront one of the people she could see milling around the square off in the distance -- far enough away that she couldn't just open her mouth and demand an answer -- but considering what a great track record she'd had with actually trusting people …
Well, she'd pass. Instead, she just fidgeted with the edges of Sylar's torn clothes. She'd figure things out on her own. She didn't need them -- she didn't need anyone. She'd proven that much since her father had died. She was just choosing to ignore that she'd hopped from codependent pleading to codependent pleading until she'd been locked in a basement in Pinehearst for the time being, as it didn't really support her theory that she'd be fine without any help.
Instead of fighting back, she just shut her eyes, quiet whimpers of pain instead of the screams that might imply she wasn't ready for exactly what was coming causing her lips to tremble and tighten as he drew one hand back and slowly cut into her head. It was slow -- agonizing, really, but not as bad as the tremors from her malfunctioning ability had been. And it was peaceful. The sound of the ocean waves was the last sound she heard as everything slowly went dark and every muscle in her body slowly relaxed, the final whimpers dying in her throat.
And then, all at once, just as soon as the last breath had blown past her lips, it was like she was heaving her very first, eyes wide as she stumbled forward, landing on her knees on cobblestone by an intricately designed fountain -- the teleportation feeling, by now, was old hat. Hiro Nakamura? It was who Sylar had blamed on the beach, but … No. There was no tug this time. Just a sudden fresh breath of life where she had felt it all drain from her. She looked around, taking in her surroundings, reaching up with one hand to find that her head was very much not cut into. Maybe it had all been a bad dream, she wanted to tell herself. That the whole past few weeks had just been some wild quazi-nightmare after her father's death and this was some crappy prank.
Like she was ever that lucky. Slowly, she drew herself back to her feet, looking down at her clothes. Sylar's black button-up and shorts told her that it had been very real, and so did the blood that she could see in her bright blonde, stringy hair in her peripheral vision. What was this, some crappy consolation prize for being so good about accepting death? For welcoming what was coming to her and maybe somehow repenting? Because if this was Heaven, it was a little short on trumpets and crappy horn music.
Not that Elle Bishop had ever really believed in the afterlife, but it was hard to deny when it was right in front of her.
Actually, scratch the Heaven theory. As soon as she became acutely aware of the creeping ticking in the back of her mind, she spun around suddenly, as if trying to accuse someone of being the source of it. Of being some agonizing reminder of the crimes she'd committed in her life. The crimes she'd been forced to commit and willingly fallen into. Gabriel Gray, the watchmaker, haunting her forever in her own personal Hell. She was going to scream. If she didn't know better, she'd say this was his own form of punishment for how she'd lied. If she didn't know better, she'd think he'd stolen Candice's powers on his way back stateside and was now trapping her in a prison of her own mind, forcing her to acknowledge her crimes.
Hell or some purgatory of her overpowered ex boyfriend's creation. Great. Another reminder of what a great life she'd led. As ready as she'd been willing to accept death at Sylar's hands, she was far from willing to accept that she was now destined to live her life out in some ugly city with that obnoxious ticking. The obvious answer was to confront one of the people she could see milling around the square off in the distance -- far enough away that she couldn't just open her mouth and demand an answer -- but considering what a great track record she'd had with actually trusting people …
Well, she'd pass. Instead, she just fidgeted with the edges of Sylar's torn clothes. She'd figure things out on her own. She didn't need them -- she didn't need anyone. She'd proven that much since her father had died. She was just choosing to ignore that she'd hopped from codependent pleading to codependent pleading until she'd been locked in a basement in Pinehearst for the time being, as it didn't really support her theory that she'd be fine without any help.
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