Fic: Ladder [Sylar, PG, 266 words], by trascendenza
Sylar, PG, 266 words. Set sometime before The Kindness of Strangers.
Ladder
Adapt or die.
It is the truth, the mantra, the driving force that keeps the breath scraping into his lungs and his feet dragging along the dirt; the soles of his boots feel heavier with every step.
He blinks up against the glare of the sun, sweat trickling down the base of his neck. Waves of heat roll down; they feel malevolent, aimed just at him. Trying to stop him. Trying to keep him from what’s rightfully his.
Adapt or die.
His knees buckle traitorously, like they’re contradicting him, like they don’t believe. Like they’re trying to break him.
He grinds his teeth, hissing against the gripping pain in his chest, forcing out another step. On the horizon of his vision-fluctuating at the edges like a mirage-he sees the road. He tries to think of the small boy who gave him this throbbing ache in his chest, how sweetly he’ll relish taking his power, tries to hold the image to propel him forward, but all he can feel is the constriction cutting off his air, the white noise drowning out his thoughts. Only one imperative remains.
Adapt or die.
The road swims into view after an eternity in which he crawls, crawls like a lowly reptile slinking belly first, crawls and refuses to stop breathing and refuses to die. As his face presses into dust, grit lining his teeth and clattering his lungs, he knows a moment of satisfaction before unconsciousness overtakes him.
Because, if he has to, Gabriel will crawl up every rung of the ladder again, until he has earned the name Sylar again.
Ladder
Adapt or die.
It is the truth, the mantra, the driving force that keeps the breath scraping into his lungs and his feet dragging along the dirt; the soles of his boots feel heavier with every step.
He blinks up against the glare of the sun, sweat trickling down the base of his neck. Waves of heat roll down; they feel malevolent, aimed just at him. Trying to stop him. Trying to keep him from what’s rightfully his.
Adapt or die.
His knees buckle traitorously, like they’re contradicting him, like they don’t believe. Like they’re trying to break him.
He grinds his teeth, hissing against the gripping pain in his chest, forcing out another step. On the horizon of his vision-fluctuating at the edges like a mirage-he sees the road. He tries to think of the small boy who gave him this throbbing ache in his chest, how sweetly he’ll relish taking his power, tries to hold the image to propel him forward, but all he can feel is the constriction cutting off his air, the white noise drowning out his thoughts. Only one imperative remains.
Adapt or die.
The road swims into view after an eternity in which he crawls, crawls like a lowly reptile slinking belly first, crawls and refuses to stop breathing and refuses to die. As his face presses into dust, grit lining his teeth and clattering his lungs, he knows a moment of satisfaction before unconsciousness overtakes him.
Because, if he has to, Gabriel will crawl up every rung of the ladder again, until he has earned the name Sylar again.