Untitled #4 (Gen, PG-13)
Title: Untitled #4
Rating: PG-13
Category: Crossover (Dark Angel/Heroes)
Word Count: 3162
Characters: Ben and Sylar
Spoilers: Dark Angel: “Pollo Loco” Heroes: Mild that only reveals abilities of Sylar-nothing about episode plotlines.
Summary: He had needed to see the priest, but another man got there first.
Warnings: None
Author’s Notes: Originally written March 10, 2007. Creative liberties were taken when dealing with the timeframe. It’s placed whenever you’d like it to be. I'm still not completely satisfied with this one, but I'll toss it out for some thoughts nevertheless.
Disclaimer: The following characters and situations are used without permission of the creators, owners, and further affiliates of the television shows, Dark Angel and Heroes, to whom they rightly belong. I claim only what is mine, and I make no money off what is theirs.
- - - - -
He needed to see a priest.
It had been over a month since his last sacrifice, and he was growing weak. He could feel her protection wavering, and even though he did not want to set foot inside a church, she had come to him last night. While he slept restlessly in the back of a stolen car, she came to him a vision and asked that he see a priest for guidance. After all, if he did not prove himself worthy, she would no longer protect and guide him. She did not tell him what would happen if she chose to turn away from him; he did not have to ask.
With the sun setting behind his back, he climbed the stairs to the church. He had been traveling miles looking for a church that featured her name and face on its door, and now, he was finally here. Automatically, he patted his coat to check that his set of guns was still with him. Nearly a decade of basic training had taught him never to enter any building unarmed. When he was assured that his weapons were with him, he opened the door and entered.
The inside of the church was hushed quiet, and he was surprised at the sheer stillness. Large bands of light streamed through the stained glass windows above his head and spilled rainbow puddles on the carpeting. He approached the confessionals in the back of the church and craned his neck, expecting to hear voices. This was the scheduled time for the guilty to come to admit their sins, but no one was here. He did not even hear the voice of the priest.
Something was wrong.
As he came closer to the confessionals, the smell of blood in the air rose to his attention. He stiffened and inside his jacket, he touched his gun, hand wrapping protectively over it. Upon coming to the confessional, he noticed a black puddle seeping out from beneath the door and staining the carpet. Just as he reached for the handle, the door swung open.
The man coming out had his head bent, face hidden beneath a baseball cap, and there were speckles of blood on his clothing and skin. He would have easily escaped had Ben not been standing directly in front of his exit.
Seeing Ben, the other man looked up. His eyes were dark and emotionless. Nothing about him seemed out of the ordinary; he looked like the thousand other people Ben had seen since escaping Manticore. But the smell of blood on him was strong and there was another scent on him that Ben could not recognize. Something as fresh and dangerous as the breaking of ozone before the storm.
“The priest,” Ben said, reaching out a hand to stop the man from leaving, “where is he?”
The man glanced down at Ben’s gloved hand on his shoulder before looking back up at his face. “You won’t find him here,” he whispered, voice flat, but deceiving. Even his eyes lied when he spoke.
Ben grabbed him by the arm, dragging him back into the confessional. “He’s in here, isn’t-” he began, but then stopped when he came inside the small booth and saw the priest slouching on the other side. The meshed partition had been burned away, and the top part of the priest’s head was torn away, exposing his brain. The blood dripped steadily onto his religious robes, and the priest stared up at the ceiling with wide and gaping eyes. His blood ran down his face and into his opened mouth.
“You killed him!” Ben hissed, slamming the tall man against the opposite side of the confessional. His panic suddenly became overwhelming. He had needed that priest, and now without him, the lady would abandon him. There was not another church with her face on its doors for at least three more hours, and by then, it would be nightfall.
The man only stared at Ben impassively, and just as Ben was considering sacrificing this man right now for the Blue Lady, he felt a strange pressure against his body. He looked down at his chest and saw nothing, but the sensation of hands on him continued. Instinctively, he grounded himself and fought against the force. When he lifted his head to look at the man again, the man’s face looked strained.
“You’re doing this,” Ben said through clenched teeth as he fought to contain the man while fighting against that invisible force. “How are you doing it? How?”
“How are you?”
The force was growing, and Ben choked on his air, feeling how it pressed against his lungs. His ribs were going to break under the strain if it did not stop soon, and he knew that if his heart was punctured, he would die instantly. While his hands were still wrapped around the man’s throat, his skin was prickling with the lack of oxygen throughout his body.
“What are you?” the man asked with a line of perspiration growing on his forehead. His skin was flushed with the exertion of his force. “What’s your power?”
Ben bowed his head, trying to take in one more gulp of air without letting the man go free. Then, gathering all of his strength behind him, he shoved forward with his hands so sharply that the man’s head snapped back. His skull collided with the confessional wall, and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. The force against Ben’s chest disappeared immediately.
As the man dropped to the ground in an unconscious heap, Ben stumbled back, wheezing. He had never encountered such a violent force that threatened to break him before. Even with his empowered form, the strain coming from the man had almost crushed him.
Once he had said a prayer for the deceased priest and asked for a blessing from the Blue Lady, he hoisted the unconscious man onto his shoulders. Exiting the church, he looked up at the sun, fat and purple on the blackened horizon. He knew that he did not have much more time before the Blue Lady came to him again. She would need a sacrifice soon.
The man on Ben’s shoulders exhaled softly, his breath warm against Ben’s neck, and Ben knew immediately who was going to serve as his next sacrifice.
- - - - -
When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking up at the man who had confronted him in the church. The other man, dressed all in black, was sitting on a table across from him and cleaning a gun.
“Who are you?” Sylar asked, tasting blood inside his mouth. His tongue was raw and puffy. “What do you want with me?”
The other man did not answer; he did not show that he was listening at all.
Sylar tested the bonds holding him to the chair. His wrists were handcuffed together and then retied with rope to the chair. His ankles were duct taped thickly around the legs of the chair. Unable to see his restraints, he could not pry them off using his telekinesis. He tried to move, but found that the bonds were stronger than he had assumed. Stronger than any placed on him before.
“What do you want with me?” Sylar repeated. When again, the man didn’t answer, he grabbed hold of the man’s gun with his mind and threw it across the room. The gun clattered noisily against the cement floor when it fell. When the man looked up in surprise, and Sylar screamed, “What do you want with me?!”
The man came forward, calmly, and examining Sylar for a moment, he then reached back and slapped him hard enough across the face for white lights to flash in Sylar’s vision. Sylar’s head lobbed forward before being roughly grabbed by the other man.
“You killed the priest,” the man growled. “My priest. You killed my priest and now I have to find another one before she comes!” His voice rose louder as he spoke. “Why did you take him? You didn’t need him! Why?”
Sylar refused to answer. He was not going to take part in this crazy man’s game and worrying that “she” was coming. Knowing that attempting to break the man’s ribs was futile, he focused his energy on the discarded gun and lifted it in the air. As soon as he cocked it back and focused it, the man glared at Sylar angrily with eyes alight.
“You want to shoot me?” he tested. “Go ahead, try it.”
Focusing all of his energy, Sylar pulled the trigger. He watched the bullet fly through the air, whizzing toward the man, who suddenly disappeared from his position. There was a flash of color, and then the man was standing behind the gun while the bullet buried itself in a beam on the other side of the room.
Sylar gaped.
He had seen incredible things since stealing powers from others. He had seen things that most believed did not exist among the human race, but this, this man with his strength and speed, was new. Even for Sylar.
Sylar decided right then that he, too, had to have this power. With it, he would be unstoppable. Even the cheerleader with her amazing abilities would break underneath him.
“Well,” the man said, looked down at the gun in his hands and pursed his lips, “you want to try that again?”
Sylar shook his head. “You’ve made your point.”
The man nodded, short and sharp. His movements were all that way-curt and direct-and Sylar watched him walk across the small room to retrieve a chair. He was almost military in fashion, and Sylar wondered how he had been able to slip through the service without his abilities being noticed. Somebody had to have known that this man was stronger, faster-better-than the rest of the humans out there on the field.
“Now,” the man said, as he positioned the chair directly across the Sylar and sat down, straddling the back, “we can do this the easy way or the hard way. I don’t really care. I’ll take the easy way, but I’m not against the hard one.”
“Way for what?”
“You are going to tell me exactly what I know.”
Sylar smirked. “Or else what?” he prodded. Perhaps this man did not realize with whom he was dealing; Sylar needed to remind him who the evolved one in this room.
“Or else,” the man replied, pulling a pair of pliers from his coat pocket, “I’ll tear every fingernail that you have right off. After I’m done with those, I’ll go to work on your teeth. And…” he drawled, “if I still haven’t gotten what I want when we’re done there, you’ll still have many other body parts left.”
Sylar glared down at the pair of pliers before lifting his eyes to the man’s face. He tried to yank the pliers from the man’s hands using his mind again, but the man fisted them tighter. “That’s not going to work, either. I’m stronger than you think.”
“I won’t tell you anything.”
The man sighed in exasperation. “That’s what I figured.” He stood up and walked around to the back of Sylar’s chair, grabbing one of his wrists. The metal of the pliers was cold underneath Sylar’s fingernail, and he stiffened instinctively. He swallowed the thick lump in his throat. But, he knew that telling this man why he had killed the priest would only destroy his chances of obtaining the man’s powers.
And Sylar wanted this man’s gift.
“I’ll give you one more chance,” the man was saying as he leaned over Sylar, whispering in his ear, “because I’m feeling generous today and she would want me to offer you that much. Why did you kill the priest?”
“Go to hell,” Sylar hissed, craning his neck to look at the man.
“Oh,” the man chuckled, “I think I’m already there.” He squeezed the pliers down on Sylar’s nail and pulled.
- - - - -
It was by the third nail that the other man finally gasped and whispered, “Fine, fine, I’ll tell you.”
“Are you sure?” Ben asked. “You still have seven more fingers to go.” There was a puddle of blood seeping around his shoes and underneath the man’s chair. The air was strong with the smell of blood and sweat. Beneath his fingers, the man-once so cocky and self-assured-was now trembling, his nerves sparking with the pain shooting through his body.
The man nodded. “Yes,” he choked, his voice pinched and tight, “yes, I’ll tell you about the priest. Just…stop.” He did not say please, of course. Ben had not expected him to like so many other humans he had tortured in his time. After all this man had to be from Manticore and Manticore had never taught anyone how to say “please.”
What surprised Ben the most, he realized as he sat back down in his chair, was just how much the man allowed the pain to affect him. Soldiers, while not immune to their pain, knew better than to show it to the enemy. Ben could not figure out what part of Manticore this man had served; he could not remember any transgenic with such abilities as telekinesis. But, he reasoned, it had been over ten years since he had ran. A lot could happen in a decade.
“Why did you kill the priest?” Ben asked once he was seated.
The man’s head bobbed as he struggled to lift it to meet Ben’s eyes. “I wanted his gift.”
“His gift?” Ben echoed. He had never known priests to give gifts, except for blessings and protections, and even he had never had to kill to receive those.
“You know,” the man coughed, wincing as another snap of pain passed through him, “what you have. What I have. The gift.”
“You can’t kill for it. We’re born with it.”
“I know. But, I can take it from others.”
Ben shook his head. This was not making sense. There was no way that the man could take another person’s ability. It simply was genetically impossible. Their abilities were in their DNA, created by the technicians in the lab, and nothing could pass it from one person to another without conception. Murder was not conception. “No, you can’t,” Ben argued. “Manticore can’t make you like that.”
“Manticore?” the man echoed. His eyes came together in confusion. “Manticore?” he said again. “What are you talking about?”
How could this man not know? Every soldier knew the name of his home-whether he denied it like Zack or accepted it like Ben, they all knew the name. Perhaps this man was an anomaly, brainwashed into thinking he was an ordinary. “You’re not from Manticore,” Ben said after a long moment; it was a realization turned into a statement rather than a question.
“No,” he said, “I’m from New York City.” When Ben didn’t respond for a minute, trying to sort through his own thoughts, the man asked, “Are you from Manticore? What is it? Is it a special place for people like us?”
Ben shook his head. “You’re not like me.”
“Yes, yes, I am,” the man said, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Don’t you see? Can’t you see how we both have powers? Our gift? We both have them.”
“But you have to steal to get yours,” Ben replied, remembering the man’s admission of how he could take this “gift” from others through murder. “I was given mine.”
“By your parents, though. They passed it down to us when-”
“I don’t have parents.”
The man cocked his head. “Unless you’re some kind of lab experiment, you have parents.”
“Maybe I am some kind of lab experiment,” Ben shot back. He was growing tired of this confusion, of this rambling and circle talking. This man did not follow the Manticore pattern. Ben had fought against and even killed others from Manticore in his time since escaping. All of them were smart, ruthless and dangerous. This man was both ruthless and dangerous, but not smart. Not aware of whom he was, and in that much, he broke Ben’s assumptions about him. “What’s your barcode?” Ben asked, grasping at one final straw. He knew he was desperate, but he wanted answers.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man’s eyes were wide and clear; he was not lying.
“Your barcode!” Ben snapped, rising to his feet. He began to pace the room frantically as the thoughts whirled through his mind. The lady would come again tonight and ask for her sacrifice. This man had secrets and could not be killed just yet. Ben had to know more before he gave this man up to the Blue Lady. “Every soldier is given a barcode. Now, where’s yours?”
“I’m not a soldier!” the man yelled back, thrusting upward in his chair angrily.
“Then what are you?”
“I’m a human!”
“You’re an anomaly!”
“I am Sylar!”
The admission hung in the air as Ben turned to look at him. This man, this Sylar, glared at him through his dark eyes. His chest heaved as he breathed heavily, overcome with emotions and pain.
The name was familiar enough to Ben, who had seen it flashed across the newspapers, citing one murder after another. Ben had never paid much attention except when the murders had come close to his own sacrifices. For a few months, the police had started to believe that his sacrifices were being performed by Sylar. That was the only time Ben had noticed anything in the news.
“You’re Sylar,” he stated flatly. Part of him was almost disappointed at how small and insignificant-how utterly human-this man appeared. This man who had eluded the police for months and killed so viciously. This was Sylar, and Ben had him. When Sylar didn’t answer, Ben shook his head. “You disgust me,” he said and turned away.
“Because you know you’ll never be like me?”
Ben glanced over his shoulder and sneered. “Because after everything I’ve heard about you, you’re still just a man.”
Sylar glared at him furiously, and Ben went to the door. He looked back at Sylar again, the vicious criminal tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere with his blood drying in a black glaze on the floor, and Ben shook his head. He should have known, he thought. Monsters of destruction were never powerful when encased against their will. They were only angry and mad creatures. Nothing more than that. Not even smart enough to save their own skin when put to the test.
Ben opened the door, and Sylar screamed out to him. Curses and hates, wishes not to be left behind and threats that Ben would die. Ben walked outside into the night where the moon was high, full against the speckled stars. The door shut silently behind him, and the voice of Sylar was quieted at last.
End
Rating: PG-13
Category: Crossover (Dark Angel/Heroes)
Word Count: 3162
Characters: Ben and Sylar
Spoilers: Dark Angel: “Pollo Loco” Heroes: Mild that only reveals abilities of Sylar-nothing about episode plotlines.
Summary: He had needed to see the priest, but another man got there first.
Warnings: None
Author’s Notes: Originally written March 10, 2007. Creative liberties were taken when dealing with the timeframe. It’s placed whenever you’d like it to be. I'm still not completely satisfied with this one, but I'll toss it out for some thoughts nevertheless.
Disclaimer: The following characters and situations are used without permission of the creators, owners, and further affiliates of the television shows, Dark Angel and Heroes, to whom they rightly belong. I claim only what is mine, and I make no money off what is theirs.
- - - - -
He needed to see a priest.
It had been over a month since his last sacrifice, and he was growing weak. He could feel her protection wavering, and even though he did not want to set foot inside a church, she had come to him last night. While he slept restlessly in the back of a stolen car, she came to him a vision and asked that he see a priest for guidance. After all, if he did not prove himself worthy, she would no longer protect and guide him. She did not tell him what would happen if she chose to turn away from him; he did not have to ask.
With the sun setting behind his back, he climbed the stairs to the church. He had been traveling miles looking for a church that featured her name and face on its door, and now, he was finally here. Automatically, he patted his coat to check that his set of guns was still with him. Nearly a decade of basic training had taught him never to enter any building unarmed. When he was assured that his weapons were with him, he opened the door and entered.
The inside of the church was hushed quiet, and he was surprised at the sheer stillness. Large bands of light streamed through the stained glass windows above his head and spilled rainbow puddles on the carpeting. He approached the confessionals in the back of the church and craned his neck, expecting to hear voices. This was the scheduled time for the guilty to come to admit their sins, but no one was here. He did not even hear the voice of the priest.
Something was wrong.
As he came closer to the confessionals, the smell of blood in the air rose to his attention. He stiffened and inside his jacket, he touched his gun, hand wrapping protectively over it. Upon coming to the confessional, he noticed a black puddle seeping out from beneath the door and staining the carpet. Just as he reached for the handle, the door swung open.
The man coming out had his head bent, face hidden beneath a baseball cap, and there were speckles of blood on his clothing and skin. He would have easily escaped had Ben not been standing directly in front of his exit.
Seeing Ben, the other man looked up. His eyes were dark and emotionless. Nothing about him seemed out of the ordinary; he looked like the thousand other people Ben had seen since escaping Manticore. But the smell of blood on him was strong and there was another scent on him that Ben could not recognize. Something as fresh and dangerous as the breaking of ozone before the storm.
“The priest,” Ben said, reaching out a hand to stop the man from leaving, “where is he?”
The man glanced down at Ben’s gloved hand on his shoulder before looking back up at his face. “You won’t find him here,” he whispered, voice flat, but deceiving. Even his eyes lied when he spoke.
Ben grabbed him by the arm, dragging him back into the confessional. “He’s in here, isn’t-” he began, but then stopped when he came inside the small booth and saw the priest slouching on the other side. The meshed partition had been burned away, and the top part of the priest’s head was torn away, exposing his brain. The blood dripped steadily onto his religious robes, and the priest stared up at the ceiling with wide and gaping eyes. His blood ran down his face and into his opened mouth.
“You killed him!” Ben hissed, slamming the tall man against the opposite side of the confessional. His panic suddenly became overwhelming. He had needed that priest, and now without him, the lady would abandon him. There was not another church with her face on its doors for at least three more hours, and by then, it would be nightfall.
The man only stared at Ben impassively, and just as Ben was considering sacrificing this man right now for the Blue Lady, he felt a strange pressure against his body. He looked down at his chest and saw nothing, but the sensation of hands on him continued. Instinctively, he grounded himself and fought against the force. When he lifted his head to look at the man again, the man’s face looked strained.
“You’re doing this,” Ben said through clenched teeth as he fought to contain the man while fighting against that invisible force. “How are you doing it? How?”
“How are you?”
The force was growing, and Ben choked on his air, feeling how it pressed against his lungs. His ribs were going to break under the strain if it did not stop soon, and he knew that if his heart was punctured, he would die instantly. While his hands were still wrapped around the man’s throat, his skin was prickling with the lack of oxygen throughout his body.
“What are you?” the man asked with a line of perspiration growing on his forehead. His skin was flushed with the exertion of his force. “What’s your power?”
Ben bowed his head, trying to take in one more gulp of air without letting the man go free. Then, gathering all of his strength behind him, he shoved forward with his hands so sharply that the man’s head snapped back. His skull collided with the confessional wall, and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. The force against Ben’s chest disappeared immediately.
As the man dropped to the ground in an unconscious heap, Ben stumbled back, wheezing. He had never encountered such a violent force that threatened to break him before. Even with his empowered form, the strain coming from the man had almost crushed him.
Once he had said a prayer for the deceased priest and asked for a blessing from the Blue Lady, he hoisted the unconscious man onto his shoulders. Exiting the church, he looked up at the sun, fat and purple on the blackened horizon. He knew that he did not have much more time before the Blue Lady came to him again. She would need a sacrifice soon.
The man on Ben’s shoulders exhaled softly, his breath warm against Ben’s neck, and Ben knew immediately who was going to serve as his next sacrifice.
- - - - -
When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking up at the man who had confronted him in the church. The other man, dressed all in black, was sitting on a table across from him and cleaning a gun.
“Who are you?” Sylar asked, tasting blood inside his mouth. His tongue was raw and puffy. “What do you want with me?”
The other man did not answer; he did not show that he was listening at all.
Sylar tested the bonds holding him to the chair. His wrists were handcuffed together and then retied with rope to the chair. His ankles were duct taped thickly around the legs of the chair. Unable to see his restraints, he could not pry them off using his telekinesis. He tried to move, but found that the bonds were stronger than he had assumed. Stronger than any placed on him before.
“What do you want with me?” Sylar repeated. When again, the man didn’t answer, he grabbed hold of the man’s gun with his mind and threw it across the room. The gun clattered noisily against the cement floor when it fell. When the man looked up in surprise, and Sylar screamed, “What do you want with me?!”
The man came forward, calmly, and examining Sylar for a moment, he then reached back and slapped him hard enough across the face for white lights to flash in Sylar’s vision. Sylar’s head lobbed forward before being roughly grabbed by the other man.
“You killed the priest,” the man growled. “My priest. You killed my priest and now I have to find another one before she comes!” His voice rose louder as he spoke. “Why did you take him? You didn’t need him! Why?”
Sylar refused to answer. He was not going to take part in this crazy man’s game and worrying that “she” was coming. Knowing that attempting to break the man’s ribs was futile, he focused his energy on the discarded gun and lifted it in the air. As soon as he cocked it back and focused it, the man glared at Sylar angrily with eyes alight.
“You want to shoot me?” he tested. “Go ahead, try it.”
Focusing all of his energy, Sylar pulled the trigger. He watched the bullet fly through the air, whizzing toward the man, who suddenly disappeared from his position. There was a flash of color, and then the man was standing behind the gun while the bullet buried itself in a beam on the other side of the room.
Sylar gaped.
He had seen incredible things since stealing powers from others. He had seen things that most believed did not exist among the human race, but this, this man with his strength and speed, was new. Even for Sylar.
Sylar decided right then that he, too, had to have this power. With it, he would be unstoppable. Even the cheerleader with her amazing abilities would break underneath him.
“Well,” the man said, looked down at the gun in his hands and pursed his lips, “you want to try that again?”
Sylar shook his head. “You’ve made your point.”
The man nodded, short and sharp. His movements were all that way-curt and direct-and Sylar watched him walk across the small room to retrieve a chair. He was almost military in fashion, and Sylar wondered how he had been able to slip through the service without his abilities being noticed. Somebody had to have known that this man was stronger, faster-better-than the rest of the humans out there on the field.
“Now,” the man said, as he positioned the chair directly across the Sylar and sat down, straddling the back, “we can do this the easy way or the hard way. I don’t really care. I’ll take the easy way, but I’m not against the hard one.”
“Way for what?”
“You are going to tell me exactly what I know.”
Sylar smirked. “Or else what?” he prodded. Perhaps this man did not realize with whom he was dealing; Sylar needed to remind him who the evolved one in this room.
“Or else,” the man replied, pulling a pair of pliers from his coat pocket, “I’ll tear every fingernail that you have right off. After I’m done with those, I’ll go to work on your teeth. And…” he drawled, “if I still haven’t gotten what I want when we’re done there, you’ll still have many other body parts left.”
Sylar glared down at the pair of pliers before lifting his eyes to the man’s face. He tried to yank the pliers from the man’s hands using his mind again, but the man fisted them tighter. “That’s not going to work, either. I’m stronger than you think.”
“I won’t tell you anything.”
The man sighed in exasperation. “That’s what I figured.” He stood up and walked around to the back of Sylar’s chair, grabbing one of his wrists. The metal of the pliers was cold underneath Sylar’s fingernail, and he stiffened instinctively. He swallowed the thick lump in his throat. But, he knew that telling this man why he had killed the priest would only destroy his chances of obtaining the man’s powers.
And Sylar wanted this man’s gift.
“I’ll give you one more chance,” the man was saying as he leaned over Sylar, whispering in his ear, “because I’m feeling generous today and she would want me to offer you that much. Why did you kill the priest?”
“Go to hell,” Sylar hissed, craning his neck to look at the man.
“Oh,” the man chuckled, “I think I’m already there.” He squeezed the pliers down on Sylar’s nail and pulled.
- - - - -
It was by the third nail that the other man finally gasped and whispered, “Fine, fine, I’ll tell you.”
“Are you sure?” Ben asked. “You still have seven more fingers to go.” There was a puddle of blood seeping around his shoes and underneath the man’s chair. The air was strong with the smell of blood and sweat. Beneath his fingers, the man-once so cocky and self-assured-was now trembling, his nerves sparking with the pain shooting through his body.
The man nodded. “Yes,” he choked, his voice pinched and tight, “yes, I’ll tell you about the priest. Just…stop.” He did not say please, of course. Ben had not expected him to like so many other humans he had tortured in his time. After all this man had to be from Manticore and Manticore had never taught anyone how to say “please.”
What surprised Ben the most, he realized as he sat back down in his chair, was just how much the man allowed the pain to affect him. Soldiers, while not immune to their pain, knew better than to show it to the enemy. Ben could not figure out what part of Manticore this man had served; he could not remember any transgenic with such abilities as telekinesis. But, he reasoned, it had been over ten years since he had ran. A lot could happen in a decade.
“Why did you kill the priest?” Ben asked once he was seated.
The man’s head bobbed as he struggled to lift it to meet Ben’s eyes. “I wanted his gift.”
“His gift?” Ben echoed. He had never known priests to give gifts, except for blessings and protections, and even he had never had to kill to receive those.
“You know,” the man coughed, wincing as another snap of pain passed through him, “what you have. What I have. The gift.”
“You can’t kill for it. We’re born with it.”
“I know. But, I can take it from others.”
Ben shook his head. This was not making sense. There was no way that the man could take another person’s ability. It simply was genetically impossible. Their abilities were in their DNA, created by the technicians in the lab, and nothing could pass it from one person to another without conception. Murder was not conception. “No, you can’t,” Ben argued. “Manticore can’t make you like that.”
“Manticore?” the man echoed. His eyes came together in confusion. “Manticore?” he said again. “What are you talking about?”
How could this man not know? Every soldier knew the name of his home-whether he denied it like Zack or accepted it like Ben, they all knew the name. Perhaps this man was an anomaly, brainwashed into thinking he was an ordinary. “You’re not from Manticore,” Ben said after a long moment; it was a realization turned into a statement rather than a question.
“No,” he said, “I’m from New York City.” When Ben didn’t respond for a minute, trying to sort through his own thoughts, the man asked, “Are you from Manticore? What is it? Is it a special place for people like us?”
Ben shook his head. “You’re not like me.”
“Yes, yes, I am,” the man said, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Don’t you see? Can’t you see how we both have powers? Our gift? We both have them.”
“But you have to steal to get yours,” Ben replied, remembering the man’s admission of how he could take this “gift” from others through murder. “I was given mine.”
“By your parents, though. They passed it down to us when-”
“I don’t have parents.”
The man cocked his head. “Unless you’re some kind of lab experiment, you have parents.”
“Maybe I am some kind of lab experiment,” Ben shot back. He was growing tired of this confusion, of this rambling and circle talking. This man did not follow the Manticore pattern. Ben had fought against and even killed others from Manticore in his time since escaping. All of them were smart, ruthless and dangerous. This man was both ruthless and dangerous, but not smart. Not aware of whom he was, and in that much, he broke Ben’s assumptions about him. “What’s your barcode?” Ben asked, grasping at one final straw. He knew he was desperate, but he wanted answers.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man’s eyes were wide and clear; he was not lying.
“Your barcode!” Ben snapped, rising to his feet. He began to pace the room frantically as the thoughts whirled through his mind. The lady would come again tonight and ask for her sacrifice. This man had secrets and could not be killed just yet. Ben had to know more before he gave this man up to the Blue Lady. “Every soldier is given a barcode. Now, where’s yours?”
“I’m not a soldier!” the man yelled back, thrusting upward in his chair angrily.
“Then what are you?”
“I’m a human!”
“You’re an anomaly!”
“I am Sylar!”
The admission hung in the air as Ben turned to look at him. This man, this Sylar, glared at him through his dark eyes. His chest heaved as he breathed heavily, overcome with emotions and pain.
The name was familiar enough to Ben, who had seen it flashed across the newspapers, citing one murder after another. Ben had never paid much attention except when the murders had come close to his own sacrifices. For a few months, the police had started to believe that his sacrifices were being performed by Sylar. That was the only time Ben had noticed anything in the news.
“You’re Sylar,” he stated flatly. Part of him was almost disappointed at how small and insignificant-how utterly human-this man appeared. This man who had eluded the police for months and killed so viciously. This was Sylar, and Ben had him. When Sylar didn’t answer, Ben shook his head. “You disgust me,” he said and turned away.
“Because you know you’ll never be like me?”
Ben glanced over his shoulder and sneered. “Because after everything I’ve heard about you, you’re still just a man.”
Sylar glared at him furiously, and Ben went to the door. He looked back at Sylar again, the vicious criminal tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere with his blood drying in a black glaze on the floor, and Ben shook his head. He should have known, he thought. Monsters of destruction were never powerful when encased against their will. They were only angry and mad creatures. Nothing more than that. Not even smart enough to save their own skin when put to the test.
Ben opened the door, and Sylar screamed out to him. Curses and hates, wishes not to be left behind and threats that Ben would die. Ben walked outside into the night where the moon was high, full against the speckled stars. The door shut silently behind him, and the voice of Sylar was quieted at last.
End