Devil's Needle by Rainne
Title: Devil's Needle
Author: Rainne
Characters: Sylar, Mohinder, Molly
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 821
Disclaimer: Hmm.. Heroes, Heroes... Nope, not here, try Tim Kring's office.
A/N: For the wingfic challenge. Um, I'm not entirely sure if this counts as wingfic, to be honest, but, uh, whatev... Post "How to Stop an Exploding Man."
Summary: Sylar must deal with some very serious consequences following his first kill after his defeat in New York.
Sylar blames himself. He got too eager for his first kill following that fiasco in New York, didn’t take the time to observe his prey. The oldest of his powers, the one that lets him see- there- special different mine, blazed forth in his mind so intensely it was like throwing a dog a steak. Not a second’s consideration, just that gnawing hunger demanding to be sated. Sylar saw not even the prey himself- only his nascent power, like a blinding aura around the hunched, furtive figure that led Sylar on as much as he stalked it. Down the street, into a dingy and wonderfully secluded alleyway. The hunger was sated far too quickly, and far too messily- Sylar’s first calculated thought afterwards was that he would probably have to leave town, to avoid the attention this would draw. His next thought was that his shirt and jacket seemed a bit too tight.
***
When Sylar regains consciousness, the past three hours come back in confusion-soaked fragments. Pain, mostly, as he hid his face from the bodies around him. Finally, relief as dull as any of his emotions when he spotted the motel on the outskirts of town. The rest stays resolutely black to his mind. The trees that surround him are as familiar as any would be, but he hears traffic in the distance, which solves certain problems to a degree. Peering around, he locates the motel’s dusky peach wall through the leaves. Good, he isn’t up to a car-jacking at the moment.
The clinging remnants of unconsciousness distract him enough that Sylar doesn’t notice the wings until he’s standing. Then he nearly falls over from their weight. His head whips from side to side where he can make out the tips of his new appendages. Four of them, translucent and black-veined. He reaches behind him to grab hold and finds their surfaces smoother than anything he’s ever felt, and warm where blood pulses through them. Sylar crouches down, tearing his clothing more as he tenses his altered back muscles. The first flap is a hesitant, jerky thing, but has enough power to cause the nearby foliage to thrash briefly. That alone is encouragement enough for the second and third flaps and then- the knowledge appearing fully-formed in his mind- the wings are whirring into blurred shapes and lifting Sylar off the ground. A smile full of twisted glee graces his face.
Fascinated by the mechanics of his wings, Sylar spends the few hours he has left in flight, zipping and hovering over the woods in the manner of those who’ve been born with them. By the time his interest wanes enough to notice anything else, it’s far too late. Exhaustion brings him to the ground on all fours, and this time he’s quick to notice the new alterations. His clothing stretches awkwardly around his six narrow legs and his barrel-shaped thorax. Some ungainly struggling frees his body of them just in time for the development of a long, segmented tail. A kind of panic Sylar hasn’t felt since childhood sets in as his vision doesn’t exactly sharpen, but certainly does widen to take in nearly all of the area that surrounds him. “Mohinder… help,” he whispers before mandibles replace his lips.
***
Mohinder sits on a bench in Central Park, continually glancing up from his copy of Science Daily Magazine to check on Molly, who is entranced by a small contingent of ducks waddling nearby. He checks his watch, only to be distracted by a dragonfly that has lighted on his knee. “Molly,” he says, smiling at the insect, “Come look at this.”
The girl approaches him, and her eyes light up at the sight of the dragonfly, “Ooh, I love those!”
“Do you? Hard not to, I suppose, he is a lovely creature.” Molly nods, gazing at the dragonfly’s shiny wings and black- and neon blue-striped tail. “Get my cell phone out of my bag, Molly, and take a picture of him, will you? We’ll figure out what type he is when we get back to the lab.”
Molly hurries to do so, and the flash of the phone’s camera feature causes the dragonfly to take to the air, turning in wild circles. Mohinder and Molly begin the walk back to Kirby Plaza. “You know, Molly, I think I remember some stories they told about dragonflies while I was at university in England. They were called devil’s needles, and were linked with evil and injury. I wonder why…”
The dragonfly lands heavily on the ground, furious frustration throbbing in his uncomprehending insect mind. Deep down, Sylar wants to scream, but his fervent attempt to force sound out of his oral cavity produces a very different result. A pebble sitting in front of him suddenly shoots away across the ground as if kicked by an invisible foot. The insect mind doesn’t understand twisted glee any better than furious frustration.
Author: Rainne
Characters: Sylar, Mohinder, Molly
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 821
Disclaimer: Hmm.. Heroes, Heroes... Nope, not here, try Tim Kring's office.
A/N: For the wingfic challenge. Um, I'm not entirely sure if this counts as wingfic, to be honest, but, uh, whatev... Post "How to Stop an Exploding Man."
Summary: Sylar must deal with some very serious consequences following his first kill after his defeat in New York.
Sylar blames himself. He got too eager for his first kill following that fiasco in New York, didn’t take the time to observe his prey. The oldest of his powers, the one that lets him see- there- special different mine, blazed forth in his mind so intensely it was like throwing a dog a steak. Not a second’s consideration, just that gnawing hunger demanding to be sated. Sylar saw not even the prey himself- only his nascent power, like a blinding aura around the hunched, furtive figure that led Sylar on as much as he stalked it. Down the street, into a dingy and wonderfully secluded alleyway. The hunger was sated far too quickly, and far too messily- Sylar’s first calculated thought afterwards was that he would probably have to leave town, to avoid the attention this would draw. His next thought was that his shirt and jacket seemed a bit too tight.
***
When Sylar regains consciousness, the past three hours come back in confusion-soaked fragments. Pain, mostly, as he hid his face from the bodies around him. Finally, relief as dull as any of his emotions when he spotted the motel on the outskirts of town. The rest stays resolutely black to his mind. The trees that surround him are as familiar as any would be, but he hears traffic in the distance, which solves certain problems to a degree. Peering around, he locates the motel’s dusky peach wall through the leaves. Good, he isn’t up to a car-jacking at the moment.
The clinging remnants of unconsciousness distract him enough that Sylar doesn’t notice the wings until he’s standing. Then he nearly falls over from their weight. His head whips from side to side where he can make out the tips of his new appendages. Four of them, translucent and black-veined. He reaches behind him to grab hold and finds their surfaces smoother than anything he’s ever felt, and warm where blood pulses through them. Sylar crouches down, tearing his clothing more as he tenses his altered back muscles. The first flap is a hesitant, jerky thing, but has enough power to cause the nearby foliage to thrash briefly. That alone is encouragement enough for the second and third flaps and then- the knowledge appearing fully-formed in his mind- the wings are whirring into blurred shapes and lifting Sylar off the ground. A smile full of twisted glee graces his face.
Fascinated by the mechanics of his wings, Sylar spends the few hours he has left in flight, zipping and hovering over the woods in the manner of those who’ve been born with them. By the time his interest wanes enough to notice anything else, it’s far too late. Exhaustion brings him to the ground on all fours, and this time he’s quick to notice the new alterations. His clothing stretches awkwardly around his six narrow legs and his barrel-shaped thorax. Some ungainly struggling frees his body of them just in time for the development of a long, segmented tail. A kind of panic Sylar hasn’t felt since childhood sets in as his vision doesn’t exactly sharpen, but certainly does widen to take in nearly all of the area that surrounds him. “Mohinder… help,” he whispers before mandibles replace his lips.
***
Mohinder sits on a bench in Central Park, continually glancing up from his copy of Science Daily Magazine to check on Molly, who is entranced by a small contingent of ducks waddling nearby. He checks his watch, only to be distracted by a dragonfly that has lighted on his knee. “Molly,” he says, smiling at the insect, “Come look at this.”
The girl approaches him, and her eyes light up at the sight of the dragonfly, “Ooh, I love those!”
“Do you? Hard not to, I suppose, he is a lovely creature.” Molly nods, gazing at the dragonfly’s shiny wings and black- and neon blue-striped tail. “Get my cell phone out of my bag, Molly, and take a picture of him, will you? We’ll figure out what type he is when we get back to the lab.”
Molly hurries to do so, and the flash of the phone’s camera feature causes the dragonfly to take to the air, turning in wild circles. Mohinder and Molly begin the walk back to Kirby Plaza. “You know, Molly, I think I remember some stories they told about dragonflies while I was at university in England. They were called devil’s needles, and were linked with evil and injury. I wonder why…”
The dragonfly lands heavily on the ground, furious frustration throbbing in his uncomprehending insect mind. Deep down, Sylar wants to scream, but his fervent attempt to force sound out of his oral cavity produces a very different result. A pebble sitting in front of him suddenly shoots away across the ground as if kicked by an invisible foot. The insect mind doesn’t understand twisted glee any better than furious frustration.