"Slow" would be the best way to describe Sylar's struggle to the waking world. Slow, and sharply cold in some places, like blocks of ice pressing up against his forearms, and his neck, and the side of his face. He felt his mouth twitch and slowly turned his head, wincing at the stiff pain in his shoulders and the sort of dizzy nausea that shot from his eyes to his gut when his vision went from deep black to overwhelming red. He squinted an eye open at the ceiling; the red turned to white and he pulled up a hand to shade himself from the light - or tried to. His arm wouldn't budge, and as his eyes groggily adjusted to the brightness and wandered down the length of his body, blurry images of brown and grey turned into his torso, and a table, and straps
( ... )
"Scare you?" the doctor seemed genuinely surprised at that and approached the table, stepping into the light so he could be seen more easily. He was a wholly unremarkable man; largely nondescript features and boring, mousey brown hair. The kind of face that was easily forgotten moments after meeting him. He smiled vaguely with an expression that was possibly intended to be kindness, though it was undermined by absent-minded distraction.
"No, not at all," he said reassuringly. "This-" he indicated the straps binding Sylar to the table "-was simply a precaution. I wouldn't want you to jump to the wrong conclusion before I had the chance to explain why you were here. Once you've heard me out, I'll be happy to let you up."
He moved away from the table, pacing in a rough arc nearby, though he kept within the lit area so that the patient could see him. "You see, we've been keeping an eye on you, and we're impressed with your work. I'm impressed with your work. You're not like the others here, you're better, you're meant for more than this
( ... )
Sylar's eyes followed the man as he began to circle the room, narrowing with each new word thrown out, each new phrase of flattery. Sylar felt his senses focus solely on the man's appearance, his movements, his voice. He was a doctor, clearly, from the white coat and context, but what told Sylar more were the smaller details: the un-ironed clothes still not completely wrinkled, the tie veering just slightly off to the left. The man worked within a system, but he wasn't the head of it; there were things he cared about much more than how he appeared to his colleagues, or even to his prey. He was also calm in all his statements and actions; this was a simple routine for him, which meant either he got enjoyment out of the talking or he was doing it for a reason. Bennet had been looking to provoke, but this man, so far, seemed aimed to please.
Sylar didn't trust it. And yet, he couldn't shake the immediate intake of breath, the ache that sank deep into his bones. He was better. He was meant for more. By stuffing him in that room, in this
( ... )
The doctor blinked, then smiled; the happy, relieved look of someone pleasantly surprised at how easily things were working out for them.
"Yes, of course," he said quickly, straightening up and gesturing to one of the orderlies off to the side with a rapid, nervous movement. "But I think you'll appreciate this. I hope you will..."
He trailed off, waiting as the orderlies approached, one to work on undoing the restraints on Sylar's wrists and ankles, the other moving the table with its large, covered tray closer. "We heard this was a favourite ability of yours back home, in another world where things went... differently. He's nothing as good as you, doesn't have the drive, the motivation, the understanding that you do
( ... )
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"No, not at all," he said reassuringly. "This-" he indicated the straps binding Sylar to the table "-was simply a precaution. I wouldn't want you to jump to the wrong conclusion before I had the chance to explain why you were here. Once you've heard me out, I'll be happy to let you up."
He moved away from the table, pacing in a rough arc nearby, though he kept within the lit area so that the patient could see him. "You see, we've been keeping an eye on you, and we're impressed with your work. I'm impressed with your work. You're not like the others here, you're better, you're meant for more than this ( ... )
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Sylar didn't trust it. And yet, he couldn't shake the immediate intake of breath, the ache that sank deep into his bones. He was better. He was meant for more. By stuffing him in that room, in this ( ... )
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"Yes, of course," he said quickly, straightening up and gesturing to one of the orderlies off to the side with a rapid, nervous movement. "But I think you'll appreciate this. I hope you will..."
He trailed off, waiting as the orderlies approached, one to work on undoing the restraints on Sylar's wrists and ankles, the other moving the table with its large, covered tray closer. "We heard this was a favourite ability of yours back home, in another world where things went... differently. He's nothing as good as you, doesn't have the drive, the motivation, the understanding that you do ( ... )
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