Heroes Fic--Bad Romance
Title: Bad Romance
Summary: Kidnapped and sold, Peter fights for freedom.
Pairing: Sylar/Peter
Rating:
A/N: Why yes, this is loosely based on Bad Romance by Lady Gaga. I'm using the plot of her music video for this fic. I love Gaga, I really do. If I looked better, lived in LA, and she swung that way, I'd go for that. >< I think she's pretty. I also really fell in love with the video and I've been tempted to do something with the concept for a while.
NOT A CRACK!FIC!
3rd Person POV
The next round of bidding was soon to start and the Bath Haus was short one body. The agents searched the immediate area hoping to catch a 'monster' unawares. They were doing the world a service really, Monster's were such horrible creatures. They all start out human of course, but then something happens. It's a spark, a mutation, a curse. They become something else, something not human. No human can do things like that, psychokinesis, telekinesis, telepathy, all of it is the mark of a monster. When captured these creatures would be cleaned, conditioned, and auctioned off to the highest bidder.
It was Lauren who got lucky. She found a whole group of Monster's hiding in an abandoned mansion. When she snuck in she watched them all quietly as they huddled together in the living room talking. The atmosphere was light, happy; they were a family. For a moment she felt a pang of regret, but it passed and she scanned her potential products. The mother, grandmother most likely, was too old, as was her husband. There was a male with a chiseled jaw, far too manly for the upcoming bid. That left a young blond girl and an effeminate male with floppy dark hair. Lauren quickly decided that she would take either of them, whichever put up the least amount of fight.
With a deep breath Lauren flung herself from her hiding place and aimed her weapon at them. On their faces, fear and shock, all expect the husband. Lauren made to shoot the girl but she was quickly yanked aside by the man with the chiseled jaw. The family sprung up from their seats and tried to dart out of the house. As Lauren went to pursue, she saw the husband push the young man to the floor and fling him back. The man collided with Lauren and before he could attack her, she stunned him.
“Well hello, little Monster.”
- - - - - - - -
The Monster was taken into a brightly lit room with a single tub in its center. Inside was a mix of water and steam released sedatives. He struggled with the agents as they forced him into clear plastic clothing and forced down his head. He hollered and struggled but it did nothing for his escape. His head was tipped back, his eyes forced open, and drops were poured into his eyes. He felt a sting and then the world burned into nothing but white.
He was tossed into the tub and left to soak. The tainted water washed over his plastic clothing and seeped under it, trapped. The steam rose and curled around his nose and billowed into his mouth. Soon after his muscles began to twitch and jerk, his fingers playing a mockery of a beat against the rim of the tub. His eyes refused to close, opened wider than he ever thought possible, cartoonish. His leg jerked up and cocked before falling back. And then he heard footsteps.
Two women, wrapped in barely there white plastic yank him from the tub. His muscles jerk and he urges them on, desperate to get out of their grasp, but the drugs have made him weak. His top is yanked away, tossed to the side as a foreshadowing. One woman wrenches his head back and holds it tight to her stomach. A dainty hand pries open his mouth and a crystal goblet it raised. Vodka, strong, burning vodka is poured over his reluctant mouth and spilling down his face. He bites his lip and holds the vodka still, ignoring the fire it leaves in its wake, and waits. When his handler leans in he spits. The alcohol stings her eyes and wets the other's hair, but his victory is benign. He is knocked unconscious soon after.
When next he wakes he is confused. Breath comes to him stale and moist. His skin feels choked and clammy beneath a polyvinyl suit. His eyes and ears are covered, almost his whole body, and he is terrified. He jerks and tests his limbs, still shaky, and then hears a creak, muffled but there. His hands search for a rim, a ledge, a handle, anything he can grasp. He fumbles with the lid of his new prison and pushes it up slowly. His hands still tremble, just as his legs quiver, but he hears other standing, getting free. So he forces himself up.
There's a pulse, like life beneath his suit, but not him. It thrums like hundreds of live threads and tingles. His muscles react, contort, and he fears what will happen if he denies it. Around him he hears others, and they too seem to be jerking. He pleads his limbs to obey the commands, if only to earn their trust and earn him some allowances.
He realises that they are doing some sort of dance. At times they are all the same, then in flash his body with convulse and contort alone and into itself. He frowns and flings out his arms, wanting the dancing motions more than the crouch his body worked itself into.
A collective tremble, and then it stops. He hears heels clacking on tile.
“You are ready.” Loud and close, amused, pleased. Then off to the side, an testy holler. “Put the rest back!”
He is pulled away from the coffin room to darker place and his suit is taken off. He sees that it too, was all white, sickly clean, sterile looking. In the dark room he is given red clothing, itchy in places, he notices it as lace. He is given boots and commanded to keep up. He clears his mind and follows those around him. Down, arc, leg up, swoop, bounce, up, move, move, move. Everyone is quiet, it is only the sounds of their boots and the clinking of ice that greets his ears. In his heart he knows that he is being prepared for an auction but his head tells him he may be wrong, there may be hope.
He always listened to his heart. After a time he is dragged away from the darker place and stripped again. Now his clothes are gaudy, flashy with diamonds and sparkles. There is a headpiece too, that he thinks looks like a bowl from his mother's table. He shakes, quivers, in his sparkling shorts and beaded top. A woman in white plastic gives him a shabby brown overcoat and he wears it like a security line. He clutches it, hunches into it, as he is led away. He fears that it will be the last act of kindness he receives.
The next room is white, but decorated, and there are men. Men dressed in black and gold. It seems they were waiting for him. As he approaches the others his hopes fade, they are angry with him, with the wait even though it was not his fault. He struggles and clings as they surround him and yank away his coat. He is forced into the middle front and the moves come naturally. His muscles remember his conditioning, the training in black boots and red lace. He cants his hips, moves his legs and arms, then crawls towards in the men wrapped in black and gold.
More gold, in the middle, a jaw piece, and his body reacts. He seats himself in the bidders lap and dances, a childish mockery of 'hip' arm throwing, made alluring by his undress. A button is pressed, and a ding. He is bought.
The dance continues, for other bidders to enjoy and peruse. Then he is separated again. He is striped, and does not fight it, instead holding out his arms in assistance. He is guided to a metal stall, all bars, no privacy. He waits for water, for a bath and a fresh start, to wash away this school. He hunches and flings out his arm, out, in, to his face, palm straight. He curves his back and twists his hips, all in preparation. He misses the water, if it did come.
He is clothed again, by women in black instead of white. He is lead to a platform with lights. His black shorts and the strip of fabric across his chest are adorned with lengths of jewels. All of them a glimmering clear. The lights turn on, diamonds are caught, he strikes a pose. They watch.
Moved, again, taken apart from the Haus to somewhere private. He is given pretty clothes and white things. White, white, white, and in the middle gold and black, his buyer. He dresses up pretty in sheer white panties and glasses to temper down the white. Dark lipstick, not red, more purple, and he pulls on a fur coat.
He walks forward, slow, steady, click-click-click. Yank, bidder's black shirt is open, there's chest hair there. Strike a pose, cocked hips and splayed arms. His panties are tight. He concentrates, thinks, focuses. Sssss, like the hiss of the flames starting up, it starts his name. Ssss.
The bed is engulfed with flames and bidder does nothing. Just sits, shocked, cheated, burning. He watches, still fuzzy, still blinded by the white and now the flames. He pushes his arm out, close to the lick of flames. He feels the heat and watches the world burn.
When the bed is black he lies down. Dazed, tired, then a spark. Spark, spark, spark, and a thin curling pain on his wrist. His gaze drops down to see the burn. Letters.
“Peter...”
Peter is the little monster.
It's all disjointed. I tried to make it jerky and artsy like the video, did I succeed? I'm so surprised that I managed to make this serious. Any thoughts?
Link to the video for Bad Romance: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrO4YZeyl0I