(no subject)
Gabe felt a hardness pressing into his thigh, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. He suddenly felt very ill. The man began rubbing his chest with those repulsive digits in tender, almost-comforting circles. Gabe forced his eyes to his abuser’s face and saw not lust, or anger, but something much more disturbing: love.
“Do I know you?” Gabe choked out, distracting the stranger from seeing his left hand slip out of the loosened tie.
An unreadable emotion flickered over the man’s eyes, and suddenly he was removing his pants. Gabe forced himself not to look away. He seemed to struggle with the enclosure on his pants for ages. It was like torture.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Had he really said that aloud?
“It is nothing you do not want,” the man hissed, placing his palm over Gabe’s lips, and discarding his pants one-handed. Gabe suddenly felt very angry. He didn’t get angry, no matter what his father called him or how hard his mother hit him, or how useless his sister made him feel. But he was livid at the disgusting suggestion of him wanting this… this creature. He reared back and bit the scarred flesh, hard. The man yelped, pulling his hand back and shaking it. It was bleeding. Gabe found a sick sort of pride in that. The man started to strangle him and he panicked, kneeing his attacker in the groin and flipping around to free his right hand.
Before he could do so, however, the man had pinned him on his stomach, gripping his hips to the point of bruising. He was forced down on his elbows, his right hand painfully stretched above his head. He felt the man’s fingers hook their way underneath his boxers and begin to peel them away. Gabe swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.
And then, without any more pretence, that filthy man thrust all the way into Gabe. It threatened the young man’s resolve, but he refused to give this monster the satisfaction of his cries. Those revolting fingers were stuffing their way inside his mouth, thrusting in time with his hips. Gabe pretended, yet again, that he wasn’t there.
“You fucking faggot!” Robert was drunk again, and Gabriel was confused. “Some fucking son you are!” A beer bottle came glancing by Gabriel’s head, to smash and send glass and liquid into the child’s face. A jagged edge came up to glide across his eyebrow. The cut wasn’t deep. Gabriel convinced himself it didn’t hurt at all, and just stared at his father, dumbstruck. Rachel was coming, he could hear her footsteps.
“Why don’t you ever listen, Gabriel?” And that was the last thing he remembered before waking up on his sister’s bed. His sister was fifteen, he was eleven.
“You fuck everything up, Gabby,” Gwen cried in ragged, teenaged soprano. Gabriel flinched. How he hated it when she called him that. It made him sick. “No wonder Mom and Dad hate you.” She was always like that, utterly unforgiving.
Gabe snapped out of his memory and back into his even-worse reality. The man was now gripping Gabe’s penis and was running his hand idly up and down it. His body was betraying him with its reaction to this repulsive creature. And then Gabe was sick, violently, and all over the man’s headboard.
The hulking figure came inside Gabe. He was sobbing and this so-sick man was untying his hand, turning him around to bury the young boy’s head in his chest. Gabe pushed against him, struggling to get free, but the older man held him fast; Gabe whimpered.
Fight! the voice reiterated insistently; Gabe threw the man off of him, feeling possessed. The man stayed in a half-crouch position on the floor, looking perplexed. Gabe quickly flew to the front of… whatever this series of rooms was. He groped around in the dark and found a counter. He heard the man in the other room and he started searching for something, anything along the edge. Bing-o. His clothes. He quickly threw on his jeans and tee-shirt, and out of curiosity continued to search for something, anything really. What he found was a pack of cigarettes and a matchbook.
Gabe heard the man stirring and quickly pocketed the items, eyes casting about in the blackness to find a weapon. He heard a small pop and focused in on the sound. A fireplace. The makeshift fire was nearly out as he sidled up to it. He knew the man would be coming for him soon. Gabe found the wrought iron poker leant up against the wall by the limited glow of the waning embers. He took a deep breath and picked it up, raising it above his head and allowing it to rest on his shoulder. He threw a few practice swings, trying to get his courage. There was a loud crash and then a groan. Gabe was sweating.
The stranger staggered through the darkness, making out Gabe’s lithe form by the fire. He approached slowly, but he never saw the hot iron bar clutched in the teen’s fists. Gabe closed his eyes and swung, letting motion take the place of thought. The follow-through of the swing, the dull and yet deafening crack as the metal struck the man’s skull-Gabe didn’t register any of it. The poker slid from his hands; he was shaking.
He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but then he was pulling cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting them, one after the other after the other. It took half the matchbook to light them all and it made Gabe’s head spin. He took each lit cigarette in hand gingerly and, fishing rubber bands out of his pocket, attached matches to the circumference of each. He lit about five of them and dropped them onto the prone form at his feet; he didn’t dare look. Gabe proceeded to throw cigarettes and lit matches into each room until he smelled the first sign of fire coming from that dark bedroom. He ran through the blaze and past the scarred man, who was twitching and crying out in his unconsciousness.
Gabe cringed, and quickly fled the burning structure, taking the matches and remaining cigarettes with him. How did I think of that? Gabe wondered, running barefoot through the woods. Woods? Where the hell am I? He heard the familiar rushing of cars and followed it, as fast as he could manage. He hit a spot of the city he recognized and realized that where he had been was just a shack off the highway, and he wasn’t even all that far from home.
That isn’t your home anymore, that voice demanded inside his head.
Who are you?! Gabe had to know, once and for all.
I am your conscience. The smirk was audible. It disturbed Gabriel that he was not only having an internal monologue, but now the other half of it was smiling. But you can call me SYLAR.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Are you Dr. Suresh?” An all-too eager youth answered the door. It was all Sylar could do not to cringe. Wait, Dr. Suresh? Where had he heard that name before? A large grin had spread itself across his face before he could think to control it.
“Why yes,” he said cheerfully. “Yes, I am. Can I come in?”
And then Zane Taylor, punk extraordinaire, was showing him his miraculous toaster-melting skills with wide eyes that begged for approval. Sylar feigned interest, wishing he had found someone with a much cooler ability. But, perhaps, metal-melting could serve him well after all. He would have to ponder it for a while.
“That’s amazing, Mr. Taylor!” Sylar exclaimed, widening his eyes in faux amazement. If he thinks I’m Mohinder Suresh then all I have to do is pretend to be him and… Zane’s grin was bigger than his face. This time Sylar winced.
“You can call me Zane!” The young man beamed, tugging self-consciously on his Ramones tee-shirt.
“Alright, Zane,” Sylar said with gritted teeth. “Why don’t we sit and talk a while?” He gestured to the couch as he sat down.
Zane soon joined him eagerly. Everything the youth did was eager. It bothered the hell out of him.
“Who are The Ramones?” Sylar asked, honestly having no idea. Gabriel Gray was more of a classical music man himself, and Sylar… Sylar had no use for music.
“Only the guys who started punk rock, Dr. Suresh!” Zane cried, mock-offended. “They were revolutionists. They were the death of hippies in America. They marked a new era.” Zane’s eyes went all glassy as he described “the best band in the world” as if it were some profound, religious concept. Sylar suppressed a roll of his eyes.
“That sounds… awesome, Zane. You may call me Mohinder, you know.” And there was the Gabriel Gray™ warm smile, putting people right at ease. Zane smiled, and told him anything and everything he wanted to know. This is just too easy. “Zane... have you heard of the man they call Sylar?” Zane narrowed his eyes, a small frown gracing his features. Sylar couldn’t quite push down Gabriel’s thought that the man looked cute that way.
“He’s that murderer,” Zane recounted slowly. “From the news.”
“That’s right, Zane,” Sylar answered, in a way that could really only be construed as patronizing. “But what they don’t say on the news, Zane, is that he’s not just a serial killer.” Zane leaned closer to him on the sofa, making Sylar squirm just a little bit. “He kills your kind, Zane. The people with the genetic marker you possess.”
“Are you trying to scare me or something?” Zane paled.
“Of course not, Mr. Taylor, to the contrary. I wish to lend you my protection,” Sylar said, chuckling warmly.
“What are you saying exactly?” Zane furrowed his brow in confusion. Sylar sighed exasperatedly, rubbing his temples in slow circles. This man is thicker than concrete, he thought. Gabriel identified with Zane, but this was beginning to wear on Sylar’s nerves. Sylar smirked.
And with that he had Zane against a wall, hearing his delicate screams as he cut through the young man’s scull precisely, exposing his precious grey matter. Zane was not half as gratifying as his other kills, and for that Sylar allowed himself a bit of time to mope. He had lost control there, towards the end. He had allowed Gabriel too close and he snapped.
He carefully peeled Zane’s clothes away, trying to be detached. How could he be with Gabriel so near the surface? He worked as quickly as he could, placing his clothes on Zane carefully so that if, for any reason, he had to return to the kitchen he would not be taken by one of Gabriel’s inconvenient urges to vomit. He gave a small shudder, moving about the house in an attempt to learn more about Zane Taylor. He was going to become him, after all.
In Zane’s bedroom he found a myriad of picture frames placed all about the room: on the walls, on the tables and bureau, under his bed, even in the drawers. Zane must have cared for a great many people. Either that or they must have cared for Zane. Sylar picked up each and every picture, delving deep into the mind of Zane, lover of punk music. Then he came across a rather interesting photograph. Oh no.
There was a knock at the door; it was show time. Sylar ran down the stairs, stopping before the door to muss his hair briefly. He flung the door open, grin busting out the sides of his face.
“Hello, I am Doctor Mohinder Suresh.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gabriel remembered the first time his father had introduced him to timepieces. It was his earliest memory, but it was clear as quartz.
“Do you see how the cogs interlock, Gabriel?” Robert asked, tapping the insides of a table clock gingerly. Gabriel could only nod. Robert continued, “Each piece of the clock’s inner workings is like a person. We are all connected, but some of the cogs are much more important than the rest. Sure, every cog has its place, but some cogs actually cause the clock to function, and others merely push the process along.” His three year old brain seemed to reel from the implications of this seemingly innocent speech about clock mechanics. Even at three, Gabriel understood.
“Am I an important cog?” He had to know, staring up at his father in earnest. Robert only laughed.
“Oh, Gabriel,” his father said warmly, back when there were such times, and ruffled his son’s hair lightly. It had become a nervous tick of his ever since.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sylar froze, taking in the doctor inch by inch, devouring his delicacy with his intent-filled stare. Bouncing ebony curls, strategically-placed stubble, warmly laughing brown eyes. Always laughing. Laughing at us? Sylar ran a hand through his hair, a well-ingrained Gabrielism by now. One he did not even hate himself for it was so automatic. As he peered down at the geneticist, he realized he was carrying his height in a way that could be construed as arrogant. The picture of Zane in his pocket seemed heavy, and he allowed it to weight him down, bringing his shoulders into a half-hunch.
Eyes darting and fingers twitching, Sylar invited Mohinder inside. The Indian flashed an easy smile, arm brushing Sylar's casually as he stepped past him.
“Would you like to see what I can do?” Sylar asked in a half-whisper, excitement reverberating through every muscle, ligament and tendon.
Mohinder was even more ecstatic, having waited for this for months. Someone had returned his call and invited him into their home. He was going to have data and a test subject and damn was he ever ready for the second step of his mission to commence. He beheld Sylar melting a kitchen appliance in awe akin to that which the killer had feigned earlier.
“That’s incredible, Mr. Taylor,” Mohinder related breathlessly.
“Call me Zane.” Sylar smiled wolfishly, and if his expression was bordering on overexcitement the good doctor said nothing.
“Call me Mohinder,” the geneticist returned euphoniously, blinding Sylar with his instant trust.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The tiny clock fell, shattering on impact. He crumpled at the small tinkling sound it produced. Gabriel couldn’t breathe.
Gabriel ran a hand through his unruly locks, looking up at Robert expectantly as he so often did. The older man was trying to be patient with the child; he was his only son after all. He carefully deconstructed the wristwatch he had been working on, and it became Gabriel’s special project.
“Father, what does ‘Sylar’ mean?” Gabriel asked, wide-eyed and innocent. Robert had scowled, tiring of this game.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he admonished. “It’s just a name.”
Sylar.
“Gabriel Sylar.” The words passed his lips before they had any right to.
My name is Sylar.
“I can fix you,” he promised. He remembered how it felt to wield the poker as he picked up the crystal. He took in the sight before him, Brian looking so afraid. The young man could see what was coming, but he didn’t really fight, and Gabriel enjoyed the telekinetic’s screams even as he denied what he had done.
“Sylar,” he hissed, testing the word on his tongue. “Sylar,” he said again, with more confidence. The lump that was once Brian Davis made a small noise. Gabriel flinched, lowering the makeshift weapon.
I am an important cog. I will be special.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sylar grinned at the bloodied iPod, wondering how he was going to explain Zane’s sudden affinity for rap music. He didn’t much care, he conceded, humming to himself as he practically bounced his way back to the hotel. He whistled, placing his hand on the door and jamming his key into the lock. He heard the soft takataccatakakataca like hammering through the thick walls. Sylar rubbed at his temples, Mohinder’s heartbeat raising in pitch to blend and mesh with the sounds of furious typing. Zane sighed, taking the key out of the lock and slipping it into Sylar’s pocket. He turned to instead knock on Mohinder’s door.
Sylar could hear the scientist’s smile through the door, and Zane grinned right back.
“Zane, is that you?” Mohinder asked blearily, groping around for the doorknob. He didn’t wait for Sylar’s answer however, pushing the door open and leaning against the doorframe. Neither man’s brightness waned, even as the seconds ticked without a word between them.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Sylar said suddenly, shattering the silence. Mohinder gestured to the small pull-out couch.
“Want some tea?” the Indian man asked jovially as the kettle went off in the tiny kitchen space. Zane nodded eagerly, sitting down to wait for Mohinder to return.
He’s going to find out, Gabriel warned.
Not before I get the list, Sylar said contrarily, a terse smile imprinted on the thought.
“Thank you,” he said aloud, taking the mug from Mohinder. Sylar hated how close the other man always seemed to be. Their thighs were nearly flush as they sipped their green tea in silence.
“Nightmare?” Mohinder ventured, raising his eyebrows questioningly. He put his cup down on the adjacent table, crossing his legs so he was turned towards Sylar. Every ounce of him sung of a sincerity Sylar had never known. He was so genuine it almost pained the murderer.
“What?” Zane started, teacup shaking for dramatic effect. Sylar put the cup down next to Mohinder’s, reaching across the shorter man’s lap to do so. Their eyes locked for sluggish seconds in which Zane and Mohinder forged a secret pact. Sylar wanted in, but he knew he never could be.
“Did you have a nightmare?” Mohinder’s evenly clipped voice cut through Sylar’s ear canal devastatingly. “Is that why you couldn’t sleep?” he clarified.
“I’m afraid,” Zane said in a small voice, mostly Gabriel. And then he was being held by the tender man beside him; Sylar just barely fought off the urge to push away.
Disgusting, mused Sylar as Zane’s arms came up to rest lightly on the scientist’s back.
Comforting, Gabriel countered when Mohinder squeezed him close, rubbing in soothing circles.
Continue...