Voting R1C4
Unfortunately, we must say goodbye to
airspaniel
We hope to see you again next Round:) and that you stick around for voting.
Skipping:
trinaweena
dallin_dae (Sorry about that:))
1. ANYONE CAN VOTE. You don't have to be a member or a participant to vote.
2. Please COMMENT and vote for ONE fic of LEAST quality. Comments are screened
3. You may leave feedback on any or all fics if you wish. Writers enjoy feedback. If you loved a fic, tell the author:)
4. Don't vote for your own entry.
5. Don't tell people to vote for you. Keep your fic anonymous until the results are posted.
6. Voting is screened, no one will know who you voted for.
7. You are not to vote for a particular style you don't like or something like that, but on the quality of the fics.
8. Remember. You are only voting for ONE fic of LEAST quality.
FIC #1
Title:Asymptotes
Asymptote: n. two lines on a graph that get closer and closer to each other but will never touch.
He calculates the exact length of the dial tone, counts heartbeats in semi-seconds, waits until it’s ended with a click and the usual statement of- Suresh speaking. Hello? Hello, is anyone there?
“I’m sorry, wrong number,” he says and hangs up: but there is too little anxiety in his voice and he drawls his words slightly, drawing out the vowels; across the miles of phone lines and state lines, Sylar hears Mohinder’s heart skip a beat.
This, this is not love, but it could be mistaken as that; it’s the same concept, the same idea, all familiar words and well-intentions: I just want to be close to you.
+
He folds himself into the walls in the corners the building, a movement of mock-disguise and teasing presence; breath as clouds and rustling clothes, whispering fingerprints on the outside of the window, and he tunes in to hear Mohinder’s distress.
Sylar collects that sound, that stopping breath and beat of heart, the way scholars would collect butterflies, pinning Mohinder down with nail-words, behind the glass wall of his own paranoia. When Mohinder sleeps, Sylar lets the shadow of his own fingers bite at the other man’s dark skin, tracing the hollow of his face, the inside of his thigh, the ghost of a palm on his shoulders. Things he used to have and used to cherish, but treasures are stolen away quickly these days.
(The closest he can get to touching him, a burst of wanton and unexpected envy; like electricity crackling through his fingertips, he needs it so bad.)
It’s an ugly thing, pride, but Sylar carries his like a piece of broken-down armour, a souvenir.
+
To Mohinder Sylar is a phantom, lingering mists, a photograph that never fades and refuses to be burnt; the blur in the corner of his eye, the breath on the back of his neck, the footsteps falling in perfect rhythm as they walk shortcuts together. (Parks, playgrounds, back alleys; cobblestones and grass pressing into the soles of his feet and he smiles as Mohinder glances over his shoulder at every turn).
And to Sylar it’s just a habit nourished from boredom, from the lack of skin under his hands; it’s just a game to keep Mohinder close and it explains away that childish greed, the palm pressed against the window, the careful collection of Mohinder’s fear tucked away in his head.
No, this isn’t love, it’s a good substitute, as Sylar occupies thoughts and paranoid dreams, all exhaustion and ominousness and impending threat, ghost-fingers crawling across Mohinder’s face, the memory of bad decisions and carelessness; he won’t be forgotten. It’s clear that he’s already carved out more than his fair share of Mohinder’s heart; there are traces of Sylar’s fingerprints on the inside of his skin.
And in the end, Sylar believes that it’s really the thought that counts.
FIC #2
Title: The Long Crawl of Hugh Glass
Warning: Spoilers through 2x04: Kindness of Strangers
Gabriel had slept through most of the day. The heat made him sleepy, but now that the sun had set, it was almost pleasant to stand outside the shack, feeling the jungle breeze on his face. The wound was no longer an angry, screaming hole inside him. In the past few days the pain in his chest had receded to a dull throb. He was mostly recovered. Except for a few things.
Let's go, Sylar whispered to him. We're well enough to go. Start walking.
A few things. Like still having a killer inside of him. A killer who was very angry about his continued lack of abilities.
Gabriel pressed his cheek against the peeling bark of a tree and stared out at the dark jungle. Moonlight glittered off the tin roof of the shack, but the depths of the jungle were pitch black and frightening. Scared. Weak. “Shut up,” Gabriel muttered. He had no wish to go out there, but whether Sylar kept taunting him or not, he would have to venture out soon. There was no more food or water in the shack. There was probably fresh water out there in the jungle, and food too. You grew up in Queens; you wouldn't know a papaya from a hole in the ground.
True. Gabriel knew he couldn't stay in the middle of nowhere. He had to find help, find people. Without his abilities, there was no way he could survive on his own. Worthless. Starving to death. What a stupid way to die. “Shut up,” Gabriel yelled, and struck out at the tree.
He was instantly sorry: his wrist throbbed and--had he heard something crack? His watch. The face of the watch was smashed. Quickly Gabriel held it up to his ear, but there was nothing to hear. The watch had stopped, some part of its delicate workings jarred or broken in Gabriel's tantrum. The hands were frozen at eleven fifty-three. His first reaction was to take the watch back inside, to crack open the back and tinker the little machine back to health. But no. There was no light, no tools. A slight jar of the table could send any one of a thousand pieces dropping between the shack's rough floorboards, lost forever.
Are you happy? Can we go now? Gabriel looked at the watch, then out into the jungle. There was civilization out there, somewhere. There was a way back to New York, a chance to get away from the maddening solitude, from Sylar's voice in his head.
“Let's go,” said Gabriel. He walked into the jungle.
************
The dust was unbearable. As Gabriel walked, jungle had quickly given way to desert. It hadn't been so bad while the sun was down. Now the light reflecting off the sand hurt Gabriel's eyes, and his lungs burned with each choking breath. He'd had a long drink last night from a trickling stream in the jungle, but now it was as if that water had never been. His tongue felt swollen, too large for his mouth, and he was too dehydrated to sweat. Gabriel had no idea how long he'd been walking, or where he was going. He only knew he had to keep plodding along. Each time he stopped, Sylar goaded him on. Move, he whispered. Don't stop again.
A stone caught his foot, and down he went, barely catching himself with his hands to avoid getting a face full of dust. He slumped to the ground, too tired to start walking again. Dust settled on his face, and Gabriel thought how peaceful it would be to lay here and be buried in sand, like getting lost in a blizzard and covered with snow. Get up, the voice in his head demanded.
“Leave me alone,” he said, words rasping past dry lips. Sylar was like a virus inside him. If he just lay here, let his flesh rot and the sun bleach his bones, Sylar would be gone from the world forever. He'd be a hero. Coward, Sylar jeered. You don't have the strength to kill me, even by letting yourself die. You're too weak and too afraid. Get up.
Gabriel got up. The sun was almost directly overhead now, and he could feel his skin burning, reddening. The desire for water was almost a living thing, but there was nowhere in sight that might offer relief. The only choice was to keep going.
Stumbling forward, throwing each foot in front of the other in an effort to avoid falling on his face again, Gabriel found himself picking up speed. He was no longer watching where he was walking, just shuffling along blindly.
He tripped again, felt himself pitching forward, but this time the ground didn't rise up to meet him as fast as it should. Instead, he found himself falling past the horizon, then landing on his shoulder, rolling, rocks jabbing him as he slid, at last skidding to a stop in a shower of dust.
Get up. Keep going.
Gabriel turned onto his stomach, ignoring the little cuts and bruises from the fall, ignoring the dull burn along the healing cut in his chest. With great effort, he reached out a hand, dug his fingers into the dirt, and pulled himself forward. Then the next hand, pulling. Crawling on his belly in the dirt, like a snake. Pull. Good boy, Gabriel. Keep going.
He was on flat ground now, and he let his head drop for a moment. Just for a moment.
Get up! Gabriel, we've got to keep moving. Get. Up. Gabriel!
***********
Voices. Gabriel heard voices, and they weren't in his head. He couldn't move. Even when he felt hands on him, he was too weak to respond. They turned him over, arms cradling his head, and he saw blurry faces swimming above him in the sunny sky. People. He'd been found. He'd lost his chance to die. Well done, Sylar whispered.
“Help me,” he gasped.
FIC #3
Title: Iteration
(Speculation and possible spoilers based on trailers for 2.07 "Out of Time;" definite spoilers through 2.06 "The Line.")
"Mr. Gray. You realize that you carry no natural immunity to this virus."
He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to answer; the loudspeaker doesn't expect it. They've been careful with him, much more than they need to be. He hasn't seen a live person since Peter Petrelli frog-marched him through the complex and sealed the cell door behind him. It was humiliating, being easily corralled by a man he'd almost taken down not five months ago; and it was odd the way Peter didn't seem to hold a grudge. Collecting him was an order to be followed, a mission to be completed, nothing more. Peter had just calmly blipped into existence beside him in the desert and brought him to this wasteland joke of a city. It was an imperfect teleport, placing them in the littered streets instead of this bunker, and it's all the chance he's had to take in his real surroundings. A pity; there are a few places he wouldn't mind visiting, now that they're gloriously empty. He's not sure he'd survive to see the real thing in his own timeline, or if would even happen. Space-time is a continuum, and without him, events could be different. Maybe he's still special after all.
"We don't want to condemn you to death," the speaker continues. He imagines the processed voice sounds like Mohinder, but that could just be delirium. Delirium, and wishful thinking. "I'm sure you're well acquainted by now with the mechanism of infection."
They've made sure of that: his faceless, nameless captors stocked the cell with reading materials and diagrams on some sort of virus. Microbiology is mostly new to him - his talents lie in...specialized physiology - but someone has been hard at work making the material easy to grasp. The virus, the one dominating the literature, is a retrovirus, capable of preying on its host to methodically dismantle its surroundings cell by cell. And the first symptom, for those lucky enough to display it, is the loss of the same abilities he's trying to get back. Only, he knows it would kill him whether or not he can throw the textbooks around the room in a mental whirlwind. And he knows, now, that a simple aerosol will start the process, but he's sure there won't be any fog hissing into the cell until he's given them what they want. "Very well acquainted, thank you for that. Will there be a quiz later?"
"Are you prepared for one?"
Well, now. That's an answer he hadn't expected. "I've always been good at pass/fail," he says, feeling the grin stretch across his face. He remembers places, dates: initial outbreak, Falls Church, Virginia, November 12, 2007. Six victims, local miscreants, all acquainted, some with criminal records. Two-week course of illness; one hundred percent fatality.
He could swear the loudspeaker sighs. "Watch the wall, Mr. Gray," it says, and the lights dim. A projector, somewhere in the ceiling, spews a candy-colored world map over one dingy cell wall, green dots glowing on the eastern seaboard. Slide by slide, dates and dots advance. December brings clusters in Texas and Russia; by January, Brazil and Australia have exploded in green light. The clock moves forward by weeks, dots melding into one another until the continents are outlined in light, a sick parody of a nighttime satellite view. And then...it goes dark. April, May, June are marked by barely a flicker. He knows it's not a cure; like today, there is simply no one left.
"Impressive," he says. "Who created it?" Because there's no way this is simple evolution. Avian flu, HIV, MRSA have all taken their time. Nature, the gears in his mind say, is not this swift.
"You're not here to find that out," says the speaker. "What we need is the vector. A...patient zero."
The gears snap into place with almost audible relief. It would be pathetic as well as familiar, this scrabbling search for a pinpoint, except that in this world, someone remembered him. Someone sent Peter back from this shithole of claustrophobia to retrieve him, of all people, to solve it. Because...he knows how things work. "And you need my help. How nice."
"With your assistance, this can all be avoided," the speaker says, and he can't help laughing. "I fail to see how this is amusing."
"You're amusing," he says. "You have me kidnapped while I'm defenseless, you lock me up with your library and a death threat, and you know full well I don't survive your perfect holocaust or you wouldn't need to steal me from the past."
"Then think of this as a chance to save yourself."
He doubts it, but he'll tell them anyway. "What you're looking for is a carrier. Someone who can infect six people at once and not die. Have you really not found that yet?" There's no answer; he imagines the computerized Mohinder glaring at him in beautiful exasperation. "Pity. I have."
"What do you-"
"She was right beside me when Peter arrived," he continues, picturing Maya asleep, reaching for him in the darkness of the stolen car. "A wonderful ability. Area of effect. Reversible death. Of course, she can't reverse it herself." One final piece. "But if she could. If someone could. If they drained off your virus along with her plague. If they could spread it as well, and the virus went along for the ride."
"You're talking about acquiring powers," says the speaker.
"Acquiring," he repeats. "Not necessarily stealing. Have you talked to Peter lately? Found out what he did on his spring break?" But he knows they won't consider it. He wouldn't either. Easier to believe Gabriel the messenger becoming the angel of death.
The speaker stays silent, and he wonders if they plan to kill him now. They might; he wouldn't blame them. Much. But it doesn't matter who the vector is. It's inevitable, sooner or later.
In the end, it's just another mutation.
FIC #4
Title: Cycle
All Gabriel Gray really knew and understood were the workings of a clock. He understood the way the hands moved, ticking away the seconds of life. These seconds would turn to minutes, which would turn to hours and days. Before you knew it, you had aged a year but nothing had changed. He was still just a watchmaker, doing the same job his father had done, and his father’s father had done.
It was a vicious cycle with no end in sight. Gabriel was doomed to live the same boring, insignificant life until he died. He wasn’t special, he was only a watchmaker. Ordinary and predictable.
It was simply one of those days. A schedule written in stone dictated the direction of every hour. Customers came in sporadically with time pieces in need of fixing and Gabriel was more than happy to help. Many times, at no cost. However, even though to many, the young man was a ‘life saver’, Gabriel longed for something more. He hoped and wished for something incredible.
But incredible never happened.
The dozens of clocks on the walls of “Gray and Sons” ticked at exactly the same time. There wasn’t a single variation as Gabriel sat at his work station tinkering with a watch which he had been working on for years.
Tick. Tock
The noise continued in unison.
Tick. Tock
The same it always had.
Tick-ick. To-tock
Until the split second when the cycle was broken and an unexpected stranger made his way into the shop with a broken watch and information that would change Gabriel’s life forever.
airspaniel
We hope to see you again next Round:) and that you stick around for voting.
Skipping:
trinaweena
dallin_dae (Sorry about that:))
1. ANYONE CAN VOTE. You don't have to be a member or a participant to vote.
2. Please COMMENT and vote for ONE fic of LEAST quality. Comments are screened
3. You may leave feedback on any or all fics if you wish. Writers enjoy feedback. If you loved a fic, tell the author:)
4. Don't vote for your own entry.
5. Don't tell people to vote for you. Keep your fic anonymous until the results are posted.
6. Voting is screened, no one will know who you voted for.
7. You are not to vote for a particular style you don't like or something like that, but on the quality of the fics.
8. Remember. You are only voting for ONE fic of LEAST quality.
FIC #1
Title:Asymptotes
Asymptote: n. two lines on a graph that get closer and closer to each other but will never touch.
He calculates the exact length of the dial tone, counts heartbeats in semi-seconds, waits until it’s ended with a click and the usual statement of- Suresh speaking. Hello? Hello, is anyone there?
“I’m sorry, wrong number,” he says and hangs up: but there is too little anxiety in his voice and he drawls his words slightly, drawing out the vowels; across the miles of phone lines and state lines, Sylar hears Mohinder’s heart skip a beat.
This, this is not love, but it could be mistaken as that; it’s the same concept, the same idea, all familiar words and well-intentions: I just want to be close to you.
+
He folds himself into the walls in the corners the building, a movement of mock-disguise and teasing presence; breath as clouds and rustling clothes, whispering fingerprints on the outside of the window, and he tunes in to hear Mohinder’s distress.
Sylar collects that sound, that stopping breath and beat of heart, the way scholars would collect butterflies, pinning Mohinder down with nail-words, behind the glass wall of his own paranoia. When Mohinder sleeps, Sylar lets the shadow of his own fingers bite at the other man’s dark skin, tracing the hollow of his face, the inside of his thigh, the ghost of a palm on his shoulders. Things he used to have and used to cherish, but treasures are stolen away quickly these days.
(The closest he can get to touching him, a burst of wanton and unexpected envy; like electricity crackling through his fingertips, he needs it so bad.)
It’s an ugly thing, pride, but Sylar carries his like a piece of broken-down armour, a souvenir.
+
To Mohinder Sylar is a phantom, lingering mists, a photograph that never fades and refuses to be burnt; the blur in the corner of his eye, the breath on the back of his neck, the footsteps falling in perfect rhythm as they walk shortcuts together. (Parks, playgrounds, back alleys; cobblestones and grass pressing into the soles of his feet and he smiles as Mohinder glances over his shoulder at every turn).
And to Sylar it’s just a habit nourished from boredom, from the lack of skin under his hands; it’s just a game to keep Mohinder close and it explains away that childish greed, the palm pressed against the window, the careful collection of Mohinder’s fear tucked away in his head.
No, this isn’t love, it’s a good substitute, as Sylar occupies thoughts and paranoid dreams, all exhaustion and ominousness and impending threat, ghost-fingers crawling across Mohinder’s face, the memory of bad decisions and carelessness; he won’t be forgotten. It’s clear that he’s already carved out more than his fair share of Mohinder’s heart; there are traces of Sylar’s fingerprints on the inside of his skin.
And in the end, Sylar believes that it’s really the thought that counts.
FIC #2
Title: The Long Crawl of Hugh Glass
Warning: Spoilers through 2x04: Kindness of Strangers
Gabriel had slept through most of the day. The heat made him sleepy, but now that the sun had set, it was almost pleasant to stand outside the shack, feeling the jungle breeze on his face. The wound was no longer an angry, screaming hole inside him. In the past few days the pain in his chest had receded to a dull throb. He was mostly recovered. Except for a few things.
Let's go, Sylar whispered to him. We're well enough to go. Start walking.
A few things. Like still having a killer inside of him. A killer who was very angry about his continued lack of abilities.
Gabriel pressed his cheek against the peeling bark of a tree and stared out at the dark jungle. Moonlight glittered off the tin roof of the shack, but the depths of the jungle were pitch black and frightening. Scared. Weak. “Shut up,” Gabriel muttered. He had no wish to go out there, but whether Sylar kept taunting him or not, he would have to venture out soon. There was no more food or water in the shack. There was probably fresh water out there in the jungle, and food too. You grew up in Queens; you wouldn't know a papaya from a hole in the ground.
True. Gabriel knew he couldn't stay in the middle of nowhere. He had to find help, find people. Without his abilities, there was no way he could survive on his own. Worthless. Starving to death. What a stupid way to die. “Shut up,” Gabriel yelled, and struck out at the tree.
He was instantly sorry: his wrist throbbed and--had he heard something crack? His watch. The face of the watch was smashed. Quickly Gabriel held it up to his ear, but there was nothing to hear. The watch had stopped, some part of its delicate workings jarred or broken in Gabriel's tantrum. The hands were frozen at eleven fifty-three. His first reaction was to take the watch back inside, to crack open the back and tinker the little machine back to health. But no. There was no light, no tools. A slight jar of the table could send any one of a thousand pieces dropping between the shack's rough floorboards, lost forever.
Are you happy? Can we go now? Gabriel looked at the watch, then out into the jungle. There was civilization out there, somewhere. There was a way back to New York, a chance to get away from the maddening solitude, from Sylar's voice in his head.
“Let's go,” said Gabriel. He walked into the jungle.
************
The dust was unbearable. As Gabriel walked, jungle had quickly given way to desert. It hadn't been so bad while the sun was down. Now the light reflecting off the sand hurt Gabriel's eyes, and his lungs burned with each choking breath. He'd had a long drink last night from a trickling stream in the jungle, but now it was as if that water had never been. His tongue felt swollen, too large for his mouth, and he was too dehydrated to sweat. Gabriel had no idea how long he'd been walking, or where he was going. He only knew he had to keep plodding along. Each time he stopped, Sylar goaded him on. Move, he whispered. Don't stop again.
A stone caught his foot, and down he went, barely catching himself with his hands to avoid getting a face full of dust. He slumped to the ground, too tired to start walking again. Dust settled on his face, and Gabriel thought how peaceful it would be to lay here and be buried in sand, like getting lost in a blizzard and covered with snow. Get up, the voice in his head demanded.
“Leave me alone,” he said, words rasping past dry lips. Sylar was like a virus inside him. If he just lay here, let his flesh rot and the sun bleach his bones, Sylar would be gone from the world forever. He'd be a hero. Coward, Sylar jeered. You don't have the strength to kill me, even by letting yourself die. You're too weak and too afraid. Get up.
Gabriel got up. The sun was almost directly overhead now, and he could feel his skin burning, reddening. The desire for water was almost a living thing, but there was nowhere in sight that might offer relief. The only choice was to keep going.
Stumbling forward, throwing each foot in front of the other in an effort to avoid falling on his face again, Gabriel found himself picking up speed. He was no longer watching where he was walking, just shuffling along blindly.
He tripped again, felt himself pitching forward, but this time the ground didn't rise up to meet him as fast as it should. Instead, he found himself falling past the horizon, then landing on his shoulder, rolling, rocks jabbing him as he slid, at last skidding to a stop in a shower of dust.
Get up. Keep going.
Gabriel turned onto his stomach, ignoring the little cuts and bruises from the fall, ignoring the dull burn along the healing cut in his chest. With great effort, he reached out a hand, dug his fingers into the dirt, and pulled himself forward. Then the next hand, pulling. Crawling on his belly in the dirt, like a snake. Pull. Good boy, Gabriel. Keep going.
He was on flat ground now, and he let his head drop for a moment. Just for a moment.
Get up! Gabriel, we've got to keep moving. Get. Up. Gabriel!
***********
Voices. Gabriel heard voices, and they weren't in his head. He couldn't move. Even when he felt hands on him, he was too weak to respond. They turned him over, arms cradling his head, and he saw blurry faces swimming above him in the sunny sky. People. He'd been found. He'd lost his chance to die. Well done, Sylar whispered.
“Help me,” he gasped.
FIC #3
Title: Iteration
(Speculation and possible spoilers based on trailers for 2.07 "Out of Time;" definite spoilers through 2.06 "The Line.")
"Mr. Gray. You realize that you carry no natural immunity to this virus."
He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to answer; the loudspeaker doesn't expect it. They've been careful with him, much more than they need to be. He hasn't seen a live person since Peter Petrelli frog-marched him through the complex and sealed the cell door behind him. It was humiliating, being easily corralled by a man he'd almost taken down not five months ago; and it was odd the way Peter didn't seem to hold a grudge. Collecting him was an order to be followed, a mission to be completed, nothing more. Peter had just calmly blipped into existence beside him in the desert and brought him to this wasteland joke of a city. It was an imperfect teleport, placing them in the littered streets instead of this bunker, and it's all the chance he's had to take in his real surroundings. A pity; there are a few places he wouldn't mind visiting, now that they're gloriously empty. He's not sure he'd survive to see the real thing in his own timeline, or if would even happen. Space-time is a continuum, and without him, events could be different. Maybe he's still special after all.
"We don't want to condemn you to death," the speaker continues. He imagines the processed voice sounds like Mohinder, but that could just be delirium. Delirium, and wishful thinking. "I'm sure you're well acquainted by now with the mechanism of infection."
They've made sure of that: his faceless, nameless captors stocked the cell with reading materials and diagrams on some sort of virus. Microbiology is mostly new to him - his talents lie in...specialized physiology - but someone has been hard at work making the material easy to grasp. The virus, the one dominating the literature, is a retrovirus, capable of preying on its host to methodically dismantle its surroundings cell by cell. And the first symptom, for those lucky enough to display it, is the loss of the same abilities he's trying to get back. Only, he knows it would kill him whether or not he can throw the textbooks around the room in a mental whirlwind. And he knows, now, that a simple aerosol will start the process, but he's sure there won't be any fog hissing into the cell until he's given them what they want. "Very well acquainted, thank you for that. Will there be a quiz later?"
"Are you prepared for one?"
Well, now. That's an answer he hadn't expected. "I've always been good at pass/fail," he says, feeling the grin stretch across his face. He remembers places, dates: initial outbreak, Falls Church, Virginia, November 12, 2007. Six victims, local miscreants, all acquainted, some with criminal records. Two-week course of illness; one hundred percent fatality.
He could swear the loudspeaker sighs. "Watch the wall, Mr. Gray," it says, and the lights dim. A projector, somewhere in the ceiling, spews a candy-colored world map over one dingy cell wall, green dots glowing on the eastern seaboard. Slide by slide, dates and dots advance. December brings clusters in Texas and Russia; by January, Brazil and Australia have exploded in green light. The clock moves forward by weeks, dots melding into one another until the continents are outlined in light, a sick parody of a nighttime satellite view. And then...it goes dark. April, May, June are marked by barely a flicker. He knows it's not a cure; like today, there is simply no one left.
"Impressive," he says. "Who created it?" Because there's no way this is simple evolution. Avian flu, HIV, MRSA have all taken their time. Nature, the gears in his mind say, is not this swift.
"You're not here to find that out," says the speaker. "What we need is the vector. A...patient zero."
The gears snap into place with almost audible relief. It would be pathetic as well as familiar, this scrabbling search for a pinpoint, except that in this world, someone remembered him. Someone sent Peter back from this shithole of claustrophobia to retrieve him, of all people, to solve it. Because...he knows how things work. "And you need my help. How nice."
"With your assistance, this can all be avoided," the speaker says, and he can't help laughing. "I fail to see how this is amusing."
"You're amusing," he says. "You have me kidnapped while I'm defenseless, you lock me up with your library and a death threat, and you know full well I don't survive your perfect holocaust or you wouldn't need to steal me from the past."
"Then think of this as a chance to save yourself."
He doubts it, but he'll tell them anyway. "What you're looking for is a carrier. Someone who can infect six people at once and not die. Have you really not found that yet?" There's no answer; he imagines the computerized Mohinder glaring at him in beautiful exasperation. "Pity. I have."
"What do you-"
"She was right beside me when Peter arrived," he continues, picturing Maya asleep, reaching for him in the darkness of the stolen car. "A wonderful ability. Area of effect. Reversible death. Of course, she can't reverse it herself." One final piece. "But if she could. If someone could. If they drained off your virus along with her plague. If they could spread it as well, and the virus went along for the ride."
"You're talking about acquiring powers," says the speaker.
"Acquiring," he repeats. "Not necessarily stealing. Have you talked to Peter lately? Found out what he did on his spring break?" But he knows they won't consider it. He wouldn't either. Easier to believe Gabriel the messenger becoming the angel of death.
The speaker stays silent, and he wonders if they plan to kill him now. They might; he wouldn't blame them. Much. But it doesn't matter who the vector is. It's inevitable, sooner or later.
In the end, it's just another mutation.
FIC #4
Title: Cycle
All Gabriel Gray really knew and understood were the workings of a clock. He understood the way the hands moved, ticking away the seconds of life. These seconds would turn to minutes, which would turn to hours and days. Before you knew it, you had aged a year but nothing had changed. He was still just a watchmaker, doing the same job his father had done, and his father’s father had done.
It was a vicious cycle with no end in sight. Gabriel was doomed to live the same boring, insignificant life until he died. He wasn’t special, he was only a watchmaker. Ordinary and predictable.
It was simply one of those days. A schedule written in stone dictated the direction of every hour. Customers came in sporadically with time pieces in need of fixing and Gabriel was more than happy to help. Many times, at no cost. However, even though to many, the young man was a ‘life saver’, Gabriel longed for something more. He hoped and wished for something incredible.
But incredible never happened.
The dozens of clocks on the walls of “Gray and Sons” ticked at exactly the same time. There wasn’t a single variation as Gabriel sat at his work station tinkering with a watch which he had been working on for years.
Tick. Tock
The noise continued in unison.
Tick. Tock
The same it always had.
Tick-ick. To-tock
Until the split second when the cycle was broken and an unexpected stranger made his way into the shop with a broken watch and information that would change Gabriel’s life forever.