Kill Sylar. Save the Future
TITLE: The Road to Awe
PART ONE: Walk through the Fire (1/?)
AUTHOR: wildern_blue
PAIRING/CHARACTERS: Will be Mylar in future chapters (I promise); Cast of Heroes, OMCs
RATING: PG-13 - R
FANDOM: Heroes
WARNINGS: Uh…I saw the previews for next week’s episode, and the plot bunnies bit me. Again. *sighs* So, this may be spoilery and it may not, so for now it’s up in the air, but I know that in my universe, everything might as well be AU. Spoilers for all episodes up until 5 years. It's strange, weird and crazy...so....bear with me.
SUMMARY: Kill Sylar, save the future, but can you really kill an innocent man?
Prologue & Chapter one under the cuts!!
Prologue
Kill Sylar. Save the future.
Kill Sylar. Save the future.
The needs of the many out weigh the needs of the few, and it weighs in my head the words of Spock, a brave and brilliant man. It weighs in my head because I know what I must do and I have never done something so…
My palms are sweaty. I don’t think I can do this.
Ando is close by, hovering so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body and it’s calming, him being so close. He’s been looking at me strangely these past few days, since coming home from…
The future.
Looking at me strange with this glitter in his eye and a half-smile precariously close to the surface, but when I cast a questioning glance at him, he merely shakes his head and turns away, and it makes me wonder what he has found out in all his time spent in the future that I myself have not. All I know is what my future self charged me to do.
Kill Sylar. Save the Future.
I’ve never been the type to do drastic things. Not since I found out that I, Hiro Nakamura, could bend time and space. I was just a lowly office worker, the worker bee amongst thousands of worker bees. Nothing special. A dime a dozen. But then…
And now…
I’ve done many drastic things. And if my future self is any indication, I will do many more things to come.
But I don’t want to be a shadow of myself in a ruined future.
I don’t want…
Kill Sylar. Save the future.
So different from the message I’d heard before.
Save the cheerleader. Save the world.
But it doesn’t matter about her anymore, does it? All that matters is…
Kill Sylar.
I’ve never been able to kill anything. Not even a fly. When I was a child, I was teased endlessly. The other children knew that I was weaker than them, that the sadistic plays that children do were things I could never, ever engage in. I could never squash a bug under my shoe just for the pure enjoyment of hearing it squish or the feeling of power any child gets when they are able to scare witless any creature that was below them. I never could, and now I have to…
Save the future.
I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can…
But Ando is here with me, and his presence is like the anchor that grounds me back to reality. He places his hands on my shoulders, firm grip, heat sinking through my jacket, and it almost feels like he’s touching my skin. I’m shivering, but I’m not sure if it’s from fear, anticipation or…what.
I know what I have to do.
I know I have to…
Kill Sylar. Save the future.
Save the future.
I am one of the few, only a worker bee out of thousands of worker bees, and my needs do not outweigh the needs of the others. I must do this. I must…
I must kill Sylar. I must save the future.
“It’ll be alright, Hiro,” Ando’s voice whispers across my ear. “I will be here when you return. Whether this timeline changes or not.”
I nod, swallowing, breathing deep.
I’ve teleported before, but this…
I have to…
I have to…
I release my breath and take the plunge.
Kill Sylar. Save the future.
ONE: March 18th, 2006
He’d always been good at fixing things.
Small things and large, little or big, he’d always been good at seeing the problem, finding the solution. Almost intuition. Almost like intricate parts were speaking to him in a language that was silent to others’ ears save his. In his universe, he heard the gears of creation ticking, saw the parts that were default and watched, anticipation curling in his gut, as objects, pieces and parts of puzzles came together, fit.
But sometimes, sometimes, it wasn’t enough.
Gabriel shuffled forward, the slick grease of Chinese takeout sullying his fingers as he fitted a key into the lock that lead to the rundown apartment that towered stories and stories high above him. It was like a dirty castle with rusted pipes and black water stains, broken windows with grime and Air Conditioner systems that protruded from windows, irregular shaped eyes that gazed out at the world forlornly; he hated this neighborhood.
The sidewalks were cracked, tatter remains of American flags hung on building sides and abandoned cars, dead, only stirred lazily with a languid breeze that brought no relief, only the smells of pollution and a dirty city on a dirty, rainy day. Gabriel fit the key into the lock, turned it, hearing gearshifts echoing in his mind. He opened the door and stepped inside, shutting it. The hallway smelled like urine and cigarette smoke, and as he walked he ducked his head at the random passersby that walked past him and out the door. He didn’t smile at them, and neither did they, he just walked forward, up the creaking stairway that lead up and up and up into the innards of the stories high beast.
The Chinese was leaking grease on his fingers, but he didn’t so much mind. It was a welcome distraction.
Today was Friday. Tomorrow would be Saturday and then Sunday.
Sunday.
And if it weren’t for the fact that he promised his mother every year that he would at least be home on this Sunday-this particular Sunday-he’d probably never leave the basement of Gray & Sons, just stay there in the darkness with the ticking clocks and the secret language and he would never have to see the building or it’s broken death. He’d never have to…
Her door was 320, and he didn’t think it was in the slightest bit ironic that his mother had chosen this door, this apartment, as her’s. It reminded her, and helped her remember, and made sure the Gabriel, no matter how hard he wanted to, never forget. He knocked on it promptly, resigning himself and pasted a smile on his face. He could hear the shuffling of tired feet from beyond the door, the undoing of locks and the door coming swiftly open. His mother stepped out of the shadows of her home with a smile pulling at her features.
She looked old, worn. The blond in her hair was no longer quite so blond, but more the color of faded, graying wheat. Wrinkles fanned out from the edges of her eyes, cut across the once smoothness of her skin. Her hands, when she touched his face, shook slightly, and this time his smile was soft as she gazed up at him, her eyes red tinged and tired too.
“Hi, mom,” he said softly, and she gave a gasp of surprise as if she were shocked he had even spoken at all.
“Oh, Gabe.” It was all she said, ushering him inside.
He looked around at her apartment, at the picture frames that hung against the wall-family faces staring out at him from the years long gone by, smiling faces, all fake and poised-ready for the camera-at the carpet with its stains, the furniture that had seen better days, the shelves with books and dust and china. It smelled in here too, like age and must and mothballs and cobwebs and when his mother stood before him, her smile breaking her face in two, Gabriel had to fight not to grit his teeth. Any movement, so small as that, and his mother would break into tears.
She had already begun, he could see, and it would only get worse as the day wore on. Best for him not to add to her sorrow.
“Hey, I brought takeout,” he said, lifting it and his eye brows. She looked to the food and waved it away.
“No, no, Gabe,” she said, her voice soft as leaves in trees. “You always worrying about me? You’re father would be-” Her voice stopped, her face sorrowful, and then she looked back up at him, her smile forced-“He’d be so proud of you. Taking care me.” She ushered him further inside and he sat, uncomfortably on the couch as she sat opposite him, just looking, staring. It made him uncomfortable. He swallowed, placing the food on the coffee table and looked away.
“Have to spoken to Rich?” she asked, and Gabriel shook his head, gritting his teeth, graiting his molars into the other as his mother went on. “You really should call him, Gabe. He’s your brother. You two haven’t spoken since…well, since…”
He voice trailed off and Gabriel released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His eyes went back to the pictures on her walls, on the photos of he and her and…Richard. Richard Gray.
They were nothing alike, the Gray boys. Docile and meek, trembling, Gabriel had inherited that from both mother and father, but Richard. Something else. He was ice, like glacial ice and stone, granite stone, and it had been years since he’d spoken to his brother. Years and years and years. They had never gotten a long, never were two peas in a pod. Richard was always hungering for something, hungering for more and what ever he touched got turned to confusion. He was raw and shifting, and Gabriel had never been that way, had never…
He’d always been able to fix things.
Big or small, little or big, he’d always been able to fix things, see inside of them, see their most inner parts. Nothing had been secret from him. Sorrows were like broken guitars strings and guilt like off tune notes; he could tell. He’d always been able to tell when broken things needed mending. It was why he could fix watches so well, why his father had left the family business to Gabriel even though the sign, faded and worn, still read Gray & Sons, but there was no ‘sons’, only ‘son’, and Gabriel wondered sometimes why he didn’t just burn the whole building down.
He looked at his mother, and there was his answer why.
He looked away again, taking off his glasses, polishing them, and looked to the pictures again. Branden Gray had been a robust man, kindly in the face, twinkling in the eye, the type of man who’d inherited the family business and had been more than willing to do so. He’d fixed watches like his hands were born to do, eyes trained and watchful, never missing a beat, a tick, a coil, making sure everything fit, seeing everything fit.
Maybe that’s why Gabriel had always been good at fixing things.
“So,” his mother began, breaking the awkward silence between them. Gabriel shifted in his seat, turned to her, didn’t meet her eyes. “How are you doing, Gabe? How-How have you been?”
He swallowed, staring at her through the glass of his spectacles, the edges turning just slightly to fit into the frames so that, the edges of his vision, blurred, dream-like. Languid.
“Good,” he replied shortly, silence falling once more. She cast her eyes downward to the carpet. Gabriel swallowed. “I-”
She looked up, and he swallowed again. “I’ve been doing really well, Mom.”
She smiled and reached a hand across the distance that separated them, patted his hand, tears brimming in her eyes.
“You always…” she stopped, trailed off. Started again. “You always could…You always tried to fix things, didn’t you, Gabe? You still do.”
“Mom,” he began, but she waved him silent and the feeling of discomfort grew in Gabriel’s being. He didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want to hear this. At least in the basement of Gray & Sons he never had to listen to his mother’s voice cracking, her eyes watering, the wrinkles in her face becoming more pronounced.
I can fix it…
Just let me….
“But sometimes,” she said quietly. “There’s nothing to fix. Sometimes you just can’t…fix everything. You’re always trying to take care of me, Gabe. Even after, even after your father died. You tried to fix everything.”
Her eyes broke their water and spilled and he could only sit frozen and sobs shook her and the intense need to escape, to run, to do anything, but stay /here/ and watch /this/ and see that he couldn’t…
I can fix…
I can fix…
“Mom,” he said, calling to her, his voice soft, but his throat was working tight. “Mom. It’s okay. I can…”
He shut his mouth as she turned her watery eyes to him, tears making tracks down her cracked cheeks.
“I can fix…” He breathed. “I can fix it. I can fix it, Mom.”
“No,” she said, her voice helpless. “No, you can’t. Don’t fix it. Don’t…”
He could see inside her, see her like she was a well-crafted machine. He could see where it hurt, where the pain was too much, like angry red marks, flashing before his vision and then fading. He could see, hear, know, that she was broken.
He could fix it.
He could…
He could see where he gears needed tuning, where body just needed…Just needed…
He could…
He could fix it.
He could see where she was broken, where she hurt, where it choked her and seized her and wouldn’t let go like vines destroying the roots of a once great tree. He could see it, sense it, knew where to find it, without knowing how he knew. He just knew.
I can fix it.
I can…
“Mom.” He reached out to her, and she drew back. His gaze softened.
“Mom…”
He knew the exact moment of her breaking, knew the exact moment of when her carefully crafted machine went haywire and awry. March 20. 320. He knew the day, the hour, the moment, the time. He could see it.
He could see it. He knew where it hurt the most, where it hurt the least, where it was breaking her down, curling through her like rot and decay.
“I can fix it.”
“I’m not a machine, Gabe,” she told him. His helplessness mirrored her own. “You can’t fix me like you fix those watches.”
He sat back in his chair, looking at her, staring at her. Seeing her. Seeing inside. Deep, deep inside, where it all should’ve clicked in harmony, he could see the disruption, and if he could just…get inside…down to that deep, deep part…He could…
He could fix…
“Mom-”
And that’s when the shout surprised him from behind and his mother screamed suddenly in terror. Gabriel turned, standing, confusion etched across his features. A man, a very short, stout Asian man was rushing at him, eyes filled with fury, determination and something else…something that was the mirror of his mother’s own brokenness-- Sadness? The small man rushed at Gabriel, a sword raised high. His mother’s screaming was in his ear, the sound of clicking, ticking, tick-tock-tick. There was something off about this man. Something….
How did he get in here? Who was he? Where did he come-
There was just something…
An anomaly. Gabriel could see it, in his head, in his…Inside of the man’s head, all through out his body, but definitely in his head. If he could just see…Just see…
A gasp. Quick and sharp. The flash of metal steel. Steel slicing the air.
Exhale.
Gabriel looked down and saw the sword embedded in his gut, felt slick liquid draining. Felt slick liquid, red like rubies, heard it hit the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” the man said as Gabriel blinked.
Sorry?
“So sorry.”
“Gabriel! Gabriel, no! What did you do?!”
Gabriel blinked, sharp gasp. Intake of air. Exhale.
He collapsed to his knees, looked down at the sword still inside of him.
He didn’t feel the pain.
This was so unreal.
“Sorry,” the man whispered. Gabriel looked up, met the man’s eyes, before his world went dark.