fic: Got a wolf to keep her warm (Heroes; Elle Bishop, Sylar/Elle) R
Not feelin' the header thing today. Might crosspost later. Just want to get this away from me.
Weird, experimental-ish Heroes fic. Title from Damien Rice.
Got a wolf to keep her warm
8x100 words. R. Sylar/Elle. Elle Bishop is a textbook example of how even the most exquisitely-made, perfectly designed machine can still turn out wrong.
Good girl.
Elle Bishop is a textbook example of how even the most exquisitely-made, perfectly designed machine can still turn out wrong.
Elle is a marvel of engineering, minted to be the perfect weapon presented in a perfect package. She can kill a man twice her size thirty different ways without a gun or her powers. She’s self-cleaning and self-sustaining as long as you remember to pat her on the head after a job well done and say “Good girl.”
Thing is, Daddy was pretty bad at that last bit, and after so long living in that vacuum, she started to warp.
Fetch.
Eyebrows arched over file. “A Hyperempath?”
“She feels everything people around her feel. It’s for her own good we try to understand her power. Well, that and we’re concerned that her ability may progress toward manipulation as well.”
File tossed back on desk, four arms crossed over two chests. “So it’s just a bag and tag. Why use me?”
Uncomfortable silence, then: “We feel that… you have the optimum skill set for this mission.”
Play with a ball of electricity; wonder if he could turn pure energy to gold, too. “Because of this?”
Sigh. “Don’t make this difficult, Elle. Please?”
Bad girl.
“This is what they do,” she said, panting, trying desperately not to slow them down. “They hunt people like us down like dogs. Dogs, Gabriel. Were just dogs-like the Cheerleader’s little fluffy thing.”
He smiled a little, which looked absurd above his blood-soaked shirt. “Dogs are higher life forms than people,” he said.
“I’m not getting put down like a rabid dog,” she said, leaning against a building for a second, gasping for breath. “I don’t want my end to just be a bullet to the brain.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He touched her cheek, eyes soft. “Now run!”
Heel.
Room Contents:
Twelve acoustic tiles overhead, three by four.
Eleven pairs of shoes lined against one wall.
Ten fingers, ten toes.
Nine souvenirs from people she’s killed.
Eight clocks that don’t work.
Seven more days marked on the calendar.
Six scorch marks on each wall, twenty-four total. She’s twenty-four.
Five different pills, a colorful cocktail in a Dixie cup.
Four chicken nuggets for dinner.
Three crayon shades of blue in one lightning bolt: cornflower, cerulean, indigo.
Two photographs on a table by the bed, the mother she doesn’t remember.
One chance to get out of this. Go make a monster.
Come on.
You take a pyrokinetic to a party with a firestarter. Company policy. Fight fire with fire. If you’re after a speedster, you take a time-manipulator. And if you’re aiming to bag and tag a time-manipulator, take a speedster.
When you want to bag somebody who feels everything you feel and can manipulate it, you send somebody who doesn’t feel anything at all.
She knows what her own psych profile says about her. Half of it was fucking with the shrinks-what else does she have to do all day, taunt the level twos?-but even she couldn’t fake it all.
Lay down.
Flashback:
“If you don’t, I’ll shock you again.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Should be.”
“What do you want?”
“I just want to feel something, and I think you’re just the man to do it, buddy.”
“You’re cracked.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“I don’t want to do this. Can’t you just, like, go and lose it to a stranger or something like a normal girl?”
“I can make electricity shoot from my fingertips. You can turn people to stone. Are you seriously pulling the normal card?”
“Fine. Lay down. I’m not doing this against the glass or anything.”
Sit.
Gabriel doesn’t know what to make of her, but he likes her a lot. She makes him feel sane, anyway. He didn’t spend his childhood torturing cats or frying bugs, and even if he thinks she did, he still feels like there’s a kindred spirit in her.
He wonders if he could get his paws on her psych profile. He wond
ers if she even realizes she’s faking everything she feels. She’s good at it.
And if part of him wants to poke around in her brain… well, he figures that means they have even more in common than he thought.
Stay.
She closes her eyes and lets herself go limp. She’s not even faking the Hindu-cow look on her face. When you want it, even a car crash doesn’t hurt.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and even if he does eventually, she’s already too far gone to hear it. She feels like she’s on fire, and she knows that yes, this is what it feels like to bleed out.
Her last thought is about how surprised the person who finds her body is going to be. She hopes it leaves an impression.
Weird, experimental-ish Heroes fic. Title from Damien Rice.
Got a wolf to keep her warm
8x100 words. R. Sylar/Elle. Elle Bishop is a textbook example of how even the most exquisitely-made, perfectly designed machine can still turn out wrong.
Good girl.
Elle Bishop is a textbook example of how even the most exquisitely-made, perfectly designed machine can still turn out wrong.
Elle is a marvel of engineering, minted to be the perfect weapon presented in a perfect package. She can kill a man twice her size thirty different ways without a gun or her powers. She’s self-cleaning and self-sustaining as long as you remember to pat her on the head after a job well done and say “Good girl.”
Thing is, Daddy was pretty bad at that last bit, and after so long living in that vacuum, she started to warp.
Fetch.
Eyebrows arched over file. “A Hyperempath?”
“She feels everything people around her feel. It’s for her own good we try to understand her power. Well, that and we’re concerned that her ability may progress toward manipulation as well.”
File tossed back on desk, four arms crossed over two chests. “So it’s just a bag and tag. Why use me?”
Uncomfortable silence, then: “We feel that… you have the optimum skill set for this mission.”
Play with a ball of electricity; wonder if he could turn pure energy to gold, too. “Because of this?”
Sigh. “Don’t make this difficult, Elle. Please?”
Bad girl.
“This is what they do,” she said, panting, trying desperately not to slow them down. “They hunt people like us down like dogs. Dogs, Gabriel. Were just dogs-like the Cheerleader’s little fluffy thing.”
He smiled a little, which looked absurd above his blood-soaked shirt. “Dogs are higher life forms than people,” he said.
“I’m not getting put down like a rabid dog,” she said, leaning against a building for a second, gasping for breath. “I don’t want my end to just be a bullet to the brain.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He touched her cheek, eyes soft. “Now run!”
Heel.
Room Contents:
Twelve acoustic tiles overhead, three by four.
Eleven pairs of shoes lined against one wall.
Ten fingers, ten toes.
Nine souvenirs from people she’s killed.
Eight clocks that don’t work.
Seven more days marked on the calendar.
Six scorch marks on each wall, twenty-four total. She’s twenty-four.
Five different pills, a colorful cocktail in a Dixie cup.
Four chicken nuggets for dinner.
Three crayon shades of blue in one lightning bolt: cornflower, cerulean, indigo.
Two photographs on a table by the bed, the mother she doesn’t remember.
One chance to get out of this. Go make a monster.
Come on.
You take a pyrokinetic to a party with a firestarter. Company policy. Fight fire with fire. If you’re after a speedster, you take a time-manipulator. And if you’re aiming to bag and tag a time-manipulator, take a speedster.
When you want to bag somebody who feels everything you feel and can manipulate it, you send somebody who doesn’t feel anything at all.
She knows what her own psych profile says about her. Half of it was fucking with the shrinks-what else does she have to do all day, taunt the level twos?-but even she couldn’t fake it all.
Lay down.
Flashback:
“If you don’t, I’ll shock you again.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Should be.”
“What do you want?”
“I just want to feel something, and I think you’re just the man to do it, buddy.”
“You’re cracked.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“I don’t want to do this. Can’t you just, like, go and lose it to a stranger or something like a normal girl?”
“I can make electricity shoot from my fingertips. You can turn people to stone. Are you seriously pulling the normal card?”
“Fine. Lay down. I’m not doing this against the glass or anything.”
Sit.
Gabriel doesn’t know what to make of her, but he likes her a lot. She makes him feel sane, anyway. He didn’t spend his childhood torturing cats or frying bugs, and even if he thinks she did, he still feels like there’s a kindred spirit in her.
He wonders if he could get his paws on her psych profile. He wond
ers if she even realizes she’s faking everything she feels. She’s good at it.
And if part of him wants to poke around in her brain… well, he figures that means they have even more in common than he thought.
Stay.
She closes her eyes and lets herself go limp. She’s not even faking the Hindu-cow look on her face. When you want it, even a car crash doesn’t hurt.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and even if he does eventually, she’s already too far gone to hear it. She feels like she’s on fire, and she knows that yes, this is what it feels like to bleed out.
Her last thought is about how surprised the person who finds her body is going to be. She hopes it leaves an impression.