Absolution [1/?]
ABSOLUTION;
PART ONE
Who: Sylar, Claire, Nathan, Peter
What: Sylar is taken captive by the Heroes until they can figure out a way to kill him once and for all. A select few offer the chance at reformation, but Gabriel's not biting. It's up to Claire to change his mind. In This Chapter: Peter and Nathan intercept Sylar before he can meet with the President. Claire bemoans her alone time with the sociopath.
Word Count: 1,300~
Warnings: PG-13. Spoilers up to (3.25). Mild Language.
"You're just like me," he whispered, all oily and slick. "You're just afraid to admit it."
There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.
-- Edgar Allan Poe, The Masque of the Red Death
The gentle swirl of wine did nothing to calm his nerves. Sylar felt the thrum of nervous energy vibrate beneath the tips of his fingers; the glass he held in his gentle palms could be shattered with the vague gesture of an absent thought.
The same went for the startled blonde sitting across from him.
"What's wrong, Claire?" he asked, tipping his fingers with an expectant look. "You've barely touched your wine."
The liquid sloshed around in the glass, but despite his gentle insistence, Claire's lips remained firmly closed. Defiant to the last breath; it was futile, but the effort made him smirk.
"It's okay," he said, parting his index finger from his middle, effectively prying her mouth apart. "I won't tell daddy that you're drinking." Suffocating gulps of alcohol burned down her throat. He could see the stark panic in her eyes, the way her cheeks turned rosy with heat and anger. Still, the wine glass tilted, up and up, until the splash of red was running over her upper lip and she was audibly choking on the effort of washing it all down.
He curled his fingers, made her lean forward and set the cup down on the little table between them.
Her eyes were dilating as she fought to keep her terror under control. Deep breaths; his gaze followed the rise and fall of her chest, skittered up and across the frantic beating of her delicate pulse.
"You bastard," she hissed through gritted teeth, and Sylar, willfully, carelessly blind to her hatred, merely canted his head.
"Now now," he admonished, leaning forward and smiling brightly when that familiar look of uncensored disgust flashed across her features. "That kind of language isn't befitting of such a bright young lady as yourself." Move closer, reach out hand, make her do the same; monkey see, monkey do.
"What would your father say?" he added in the same second he grasped her fingers tightly between his.
He could feel the shudder of distaste run up her arm. For a moment, he had the bright, vivid image of a torn ligament, of her shoulder popping out of place as her bones peeked through her flesh. He wondered how long it would take for her arm to grow back. He wondered if it would hurt.
Sylar crossed his ankles, fell back against the couch. His fingertips diddled in the air; Claire's chair shook in agitation. He watched her with a hunger nigh unnerving, akin to the thirst for knowledge that usually delegated his sociopathic actions. His tongue edged along dry lips, and he was giving her a contemplative look; a dangerous look.
"You and I... we're not very different."
"What do you want?" Claire hissed, not for the first time.
Sylar, as per usual, ignored her.
"Both of us were adopted."
She strained against her invisible bonds. He could feel her pushing at his telekinesis as if she were pushing at his own body.
"Both of us are... misunderstood."
Her struggle persisted, became more frantic when he lifted up and sidled closer to her; when he settled down on the empty space beside her and leaned in until his body heat was infecting her very presence.
"Both of us will live... forever."
The last was whispered in her ear, an intimate gesture punctuated by the gentle fingers that brushed a strand of hair out of her face.
"We've already been over this," she said sharply, fighting back enough to wiggle her toes. "In case you were wondering, I haven't contracted amnesia in the five minutes it took you to repeat what you've just said."
It was his jagged intensity that got to her -- the way his eyes pin-pricked her pores for the smallest of details until he got his answer. It was as if he had to analyze her scathing retort before allowing a single huff of humour to escape. The rapid release of breath tickled across her ear, reminding her of his close proximity. She was certain he'd done that on purpose.
"You're just like me," he whispered, all oily and slick. "You're just afraid to admit it."
"I'm nothing like you," she bit back, then aimed for a low blow, "You're pathetic."
~*~*~*~
While Claire was sailing through the air, about half a second before her spine went crashing through the double doors leading to sweet freedom, she had just enough time to think, Wow. Touchy much?
And then the impact. And the pain. And before she could even process half of what was going on around her, Peter and her biological 'if-I'm-cut-and-you're-cut-we-bleed-the-same' father were rushing to her side. It was all one foggy mess, because her brain was too busy fighting off a concussion that would have crippled a normal person, and her head was positively spinning.
She heard them before she saw them; the telltale signs of a fight. The crash of splintered wood harmonizing with the shattered treble of broken glass. Bodies beating against cracked walls, sounds of struggle, of pain. Her pulse was racing. They shouldn't be fighting Sylar -- they could get hurt; they could die. She couldn't. If they'd just man up and put a gun in her hand, a knife, anything, then she'd have a better chance at immobilizing that monster than any of them. And if she didn't get it right the first time, she could just try it again. They didn't have that luxury.
Once her bones knit together and she was able to stand on her own two feet once again, Claire had a moment where she was literally incapable of moving. What if she walked in there and her father was dead? Her uncle? Both? What if Sylar was waiting for her; waiting for a chance to do something worse than simply cause her absent pain? He could control her body, for chrissakes!
Kinetically, every tiny nerve on every part of her body was screaming at her to turn tail and run.
But Claire Bennet wasn't in the business of running away.
The second she stepped through the door, she had to duck before her head was ripped off by a flying dresser projectile.
"Back for seconds?"
A giant shard of wood stabbed through her arm before she could respond. Gripping the jutting edge and ripping it out was nothing short of reflex. To her right, Nathan whizzed past through the air and successfully slammed into Sylar, knocking him into the far wall. The entire room was decimated. Peter was in the corner, shaking off a recent fall, and was by Nathan's side in a second.
Claire was now wielding the fractured sliver of wood like a weapon.
"Well well well," clucked the decadent tongue of an immortal man. Sylar shook the dust off of his body as he rose from the wreckage. "Isn't this just one great big family reunion? Doting daughter. Forgiving brother.
"And you." His eyes locked onto Nathan like a threat. "A man who so easily betrayed his own kind for the greater good."
"Just trying to lock up the psychopaths like you," Nathan replied, clenching his fists.
Sylar gave a little shrug.
"As long as you had 'good intentions', I'm certain all your special friends will forgive the inhumane treatment."
"Don't listen to him!" Claire butt in, her voice choked and her demeanor ragged. "He's just trying to get to you."
Sylar took that time to roll his eyes.
"Why, Claire, your perceptive skills are remarkable."
Peter, on the other hand, took that time to stab Sylar in the fucking throat. He knew doing it with a knife wouldn't be all too effective. That was why he had a syringe. A syringe filled with enough tranquilizer drugs to fell a large elephant.
The only indication Sylar gave of his acknowledged defeat -- however temporary -- was a slight widening of the eyes.
And the fact that he lost control of his motor functions and toppled over in a modest, serial-killer-shaped heap.
PART ONE
Who: Sylar, Claire, Nathan, Peter
What: Sylar is taken captive by the Heroes until they can figure out a way to kill him once and for all. A select few offer the chance at reformation, but Gabriel's not biting. It's up to Claire to change his mind. In This Chapter: Peter and Nathan intercept Sylar before he can meet with the President. Claire bemoans her alone time with the sociopath.
Word Count: 1,300~
Warnings: PG-13. Spoilers up to (3.25). Mild Language.
"You're just like me," he whispered, all oily and slick. "You're just afraid to admit it."
There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.
-- Edgar Allan Poe, The Masque of the Red Death
The gentle swirl of wine did nothing to calm his nerves. Sylar felt the thrum of nervous energy vibrate beneath the tips of his fingers; the glass he held in his gentle palms could be shattered with the vague gesture of an absent thought.
The same went for the startled blonde sitting across from him.
"What's wrong, Claire?" he asked, tipping his fingers with an expectant look. "You've barely touched your wine."
The liquid sloshed around in the glass, but despite his gentle insistence, Claire's lips remained firmly closed. Defiant to the last breath; it was futile, but the effort made him smirk.
"It's okay," he said, parting his index finger from his middle, effectively prying her mouth apart. "I won't tell daddy that you're drinking." Suffocating gulps of alcohol burned down her throat. He could see the stark panic in her eyes, the way her cheeks turned rosy with heat and anger. Still, the wine glass tilted, up and up, until the splash of red was running over her upper lip and she was audibly choking on the effort of washing it all down.
He curled his fingers, made her lean forward and set the cup down on the little table between them.
Her eyes were dilating as she fought to keep her terror under control. Deep breaths; his gaze followed the rise and fall of her chest, skittered up and across the frantic beating of her delicate pulse.
"You bastard," she hissed through gritted teeth, and Sylar, willfully, carelessly blind to her hatred, merely canted his head.
"Now now," he admonished, leaning forward and smiling brightly when that familiar look of uncensored disgust flashed across her features. "That kind of language isn't befitting of such a bright young lady as yourself." Move closer, reach out hand, make her do the same; monkey see, monkey do.
"What would your father say?" he added in the same second he grasped her fingers tightly between his.
He could feel the shudder of distaste run up her arm. For a moment, he had the bright, vivid image of a torn ligament, of her shoulder popping out of place as her bones peeked through her flesh. He wondered how long it would take for her arm to grow back. He wondered if it would hurt.
Sylar crossed his ankles, fell back against the couch. His fingertips diddled in the air; Claire's chair shook in agitation. He watched her with a hunger nigh unnerving, akin to the thirst for knowledge that usually delegated his sociopathic actions. His tongue edged along dry lips, and he was giving her a contemplative look; a dangerous look.
"You and I... we're not very different."
"What do you want?" Claire hissed, not for the first time.
Sylar, as per usual, ignored her.
"Both of us were adopted."
She strained against her invisible bonds. He could feel her pushing at his telekinesis as if she were pushing at his own body.
"Both of us are... misunderstood."
Her struggle persisted, became more frantic when he lifted up and sidled closer to her; when he settled down on the empty space beside her and leaned in until his body heat was infecting her very presence.
"Both of us will live... forever."
The last was whispered in her ear, an intimate gesture punctuated by the gentle fingers that brushed a strand of hair out of her face.
"We've already been over this," she said sharply, fighting back enough to wiggle her toes. "In case you were wondering, I haven't contracted amnesia in the five minutes it took you to repeat what you've just said."
It was his jagged intensity that got to her -- the way his eyes pin-pricked her pores for the smallest of details until he got his answer. It was as if he had to analyze her scathing retort before allowing a single huff of humour to escape. The rapid release of breath tickled across her ear, reminding her of his close proximity. She was certain he'd done that on purpose.
"You're just like me," he whispered, all oily and slick. "You're just afraid to admit it."
"I'm nothing like you," she bit back, then aimed for a low blow, "You're pathetic."
~*~*~*~
While Claire was sailing through the air, about half a second before her spine went crashing through the double doors leading to sweet freedom, she had just enough time to think, Wow. Touchy much?
And then the impact. And the pain. And before she could even process half of what was going on around her, Peter and her biological 'if-I'm-cut-and-you're-cut-we-bleed-the-same' father were rushing to her side. It was all one foggy mess, because her brain was too busy fighting off a concussion that would have crippled a normal person, and her head was positively spinning.
She heard them before she saw them; the telltale signs of a fight. The crash of splintered wood harmonizing with the shattered treble of broken glass. Bodies beating against cracked walls, sounds of struggle, of pain. Her pulse was racing. They shouldn't be fighting Sylar -- they could get hurt; they could die. She couldn't. If they'd just man up and put a gun in her hand, a knife, anything, then she'd have a better chance at immobilizing that monster than any of them. And if she didn't get it right the first time, she could just try it again. They didn't have that luxury.
Once her bones knit together and she was able to stand on her own two feet once again, Claire had a moment where she was literally incapable of moving. What if she walked in there and her father was dead? Her uncle? Both? What if Sylar was waiting for her; waiting for a chance to do something worse than simply cause her absent pain? He could control her body, for chrissakes!
Kinetically, every tiny nerve on every part of her body was screaming at her to turn tail and run.
But Claire Bennet wasn't in the business of running away.
The second she stepped through the door, she had to duck before her head was ripped off by a flying dresser projectile.
"Back for seconds?"
A giant shard of wood stabbed through her arm before she could respond. Gripping the jutting edge and ripping it out was nothing short of reflex. To her right, Nathan whizzed past through the air and successfully slammed into Sylar, knocking him into the far wall. The entire room was decimated. Peter was in the corner, shaking off a recent fall, and was by Nathan's side in a second.
Claire was now wielding the fractured sliver of wood like a weapon.
"Well well well," clucked the decadent tongue of an immortal man. Sylar shook the dust off of his body as he rose from the wreckage. "Isn't this just one great big family reunion? Doting daughter. Forgiving brother.
"And you." His eyes locked onto Nathan like a threat. "A man who so easily betrayed his own kind for the greater good."
"Just trying to lock up the psychopaths like you," Nathan replied, clenching his fists.
Sylar gave a little shrug.
"As long as you had 'good intentions', I'm certain all your special friends will forgive the inhumane treatment."
"Don't listen to him!" Claire butt in, her voice choked and her demeanor ragged. "He's just trying to get to you."
Sylar took that time to roll his eyes.
"Why, Claire, your perceptive skills are remarkable."
Peter, on the other hand, took that time to stab Sylar in the fucking throat. He knew doing it with a knife wouldn't be all too effective. That was why he had a syringe. A syringe filled with enough tranquilizer drugs to fell a large elephant.
The only indication Sylar gave of his acknowledged defeat -- however temporary -- was a slight widening of the eyes.
And the fact that he lost control of his motor functions and toppled over in a modest, serial-killer-shaped heap.