Sinner's Night
Title: Sinner's Night
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Sylar, Mohinder, Matt, Molly
Rating: R
Summary: "Nothing was pointless in his mind, everything was very much instrumental to the plan. And this particular plan was very simple."
Spoilers: Up to and including S2 finale
Author's Notes: My first time trying to write Sylar's POV, inspiration thanks to the genius that is heroslayer (risingfire). Dark.
Warnings: Character death
Four weeks, precisely, had passed since the first time he had stood here. On this street, outside this door, against this wall, at precisely 9:30pm. The cop had got home exactly 37 minutes ago, just like every night for the past 19 days. Before that, he had been coming home earlier, but the current routine seemed to be staying. He assumed a change of shift to be the explanation.
Sylar liked to be precise. Like with his timepieces of old, he could see and hear everything in the smallest detail, sense the slightest movement or action out of place. Suresh and his 'family' were, in his opinion, pleasingly regular. It made his stalking all the more satisfactory, and he did love to stalk.
It was his power. His original one, the one Chandra Suresh had considered so insignificant he had not even been able to detect it when he had run his tests. Intuitive aptitude. The insatiable desire to find objects, people, anything and find its routine. So it was here, with the hapless geneticist. After precisely four weeks (to the minute, at this exact moment), he had a perfect grasp on the man's every movement. He knew what time his alarm went off (6:28am, though it was most likely 'set' to 6:30), what time the girl would wake and demand breakfast (7:06). Somewhere between 7:35 and 7:43, the cop would come bustling out with the brat, and off they would head to school and work. Between 7:49 and 8:00, the geneticist would follow, off to his laboratory which was once the painter's loft.
Sometimes Sylar followed him there, though that was not so often. It was the household routine he wanted to establish, and what the Professor did away from the apartment was of far less importance to him. Unless the bloodlust, or the need for discovering patterns, was particularly strong within him that day, Sylar would retire then, bed down and sleep the day away so that he was alert for the night to come. Because 4:27pm (or slightly later, if the girl's teacher wanted a word, or the metro was not working to schedule) heralded the return of the Indian and his girl. Study time for the both of them, until it was gone 6, and the girl's stomach started to rumble. Dinner, bath and bed for her, and then home would come the other one. Dinner for him and the geneticist, small talk - "How was your day?" "Alright, yours?" "Alright." - and then bed for Suresh (10:30 - 10:57). The cop followed soon after (11:03 - 11:21).
As with everything he did, Sylar had spent the last 28 days out on this flagstone, or lurking down side-alleys, listening and learning, for a reason. Nothing was pointless in his mind, everything was very much instrumental to the plan. And this particular plan was very simple.
Sylar lived for recognition. He wanted the praise, the promise that he was special, more than anything else. He thrived on that, more than he ever did on food, water or oxygen. And, sadly for Suresh, the Indian had inherited his father's inability to understand this vital character trait.
It would not have been hard for the geneticist, to keep Sylar at bay. If he had not been such a coward, tortured, gone straight to the police, and then shut him out completely when he had tried to reach out yet again, things would have been different for the both of them. He could have let him live, maybe even respected his wishes to keep the telepath and the girl safe. But you only ever get what you give.
By 12:38am, the house was silent except for the heavy breathing of people sound asleep. It was time. Moving slowly, yet deliberately, Sylar entered the building. Telekinesis moved anything that barred his way, as well as keeping the floor benath his feet from betraying him. He reached the small apartment without difficulty, even allowed himself a moment to pause there by the table and remember times past. The chair he had been tied to and tortured, the ceiling where he had responded in kind. The kitchen unit where naive Maya had cooked for her saviour. Such a shame, that Suresh had refused to help, to acknowledge him. Such a shame it had come to this, just like it had for Chandra.
The Indian's door was nudged open by telekinesis, and Sylar stepped inside. A perverse sense of privacy made him close that door then, behind him, as if somehow the inevitable was a private affair. Like a lover, coming to bed.
He would derive no pleasure from this, he knew that much already. The thought churned his stomach, his shoulders hunched against an invisible force holding him back. Like Chandra, Mohinder's death would be one that later caused him guilt, necessary as it might be. A lesson that had to be learnt. A means to an ends. And being here did help his resolve, the tick-tick-ticking from the other rooms loud and reassuring to his ears.
It took Suresh a moment to wake up, a moment for his brain to kick in and realise oxygen was no longer reaching his lungs. Fearful eyes met Sylar's then, as his fingers squeezed an imaginary windpipe, telekinetically causing the same effect on Suresh's own. Without air, the Indian could do no more than gasp, and the strength to thrash had already left him. The breathing of the cop and the girl, in the next rooms, was still slow and steady in Sylar's ears, the ticking ever present... they would not wake in time to save their protector. It was over, and his face betrayed nothing besides apology as Suresh buckled and finally fell still on his bed, mouth slack and face drained of colour.
A shame, but a necessity. He would not stand for betrayal, for abandonment, for having power kept from him. And how much easier to gain power it would now be, with the child's power and telepathy both in his arsenal. They made up for the pain in his chest that might just have been heartache, as he stepped from the dead man's bedroom. Some times, these things just had to be. It was just the way of the world.
Or, as an old friend had called it, Destiny.
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Sylar, Mohinder, Matt, Molly
Rating: R
Summary: "Nothing was pointless in his mind, everything was very much instrumental to the plan. And this particular plan was very simple."
Spoilers: Up to and including S2 finale
Author's Notes: My first time trying to write Sylar's POV, inspiration thanks to the genius that is heroslayer (risingfire). Dark.
Warnings: Character death
Four weeks, precisely, had passed since the first time he had stood here. On this street, outside this door, against this wall, at precisely 9:30pm. The cop had got home exactly 37 minutes ago, just like every night for the past 19 days. Before that, he had been coming home earlier, but the current routine seemed to be staying. He assumed a change of shift to be the explanation.
Sylar liked to be precise. Like with his timepieces of old, he could see and hear everything in the smallest detail, sense the slightest movement or action out of place. Suresh and his 'family' were, in his opinion, pleasingly regular. It made his stalking all the more satisfactory, and he did love to stalk.
It was his power. His original one, the one Chandra Suresh had considered so insignificant he had not even been able to detect it when he had run his tests. Intuitive aptitude. The insatiable desire to find objects, people, anything and find its routine. So it was here, with the hapless geneticist. After precisely four weeks (to the minute, at this exact moment), he had a perfect grasp on the man's every movement. He knew what time his alarm went off (6:28am, though it was most likely 'set' to 6:30), what time the girl would wake and demand breakfast (7:06). Somewhere between 7:35 and 7:43, the cop would come bustling out with the brat, and off they would head to school and work. Between 7:49 and 8:00, the geneticist would follow, off to his laboratory which was once the painter's loft.
Sometimes Sylar followed him there, though that was not so often. It was the household routine he wanted to establish, and what the Professor did away from the apartment was of far less importance to him. Unless the bloodlust, or the need for discovering patterns, was particularly strong within him that day, Sylar would retire then, bed down and sleep the day away so that he was alert for the night to come. Because 4:27pm (or slightly later, if the girl's teacher wanted a word, or the metro was not working to schedule) heralded the return of the Indian and his girl. Study time for the both of them, until it was gone 6, and the girl's stomach started to rumble. Dinner, bath and bed for her, and then home would come the other one. Dinner for him and the geneticist, small talk - "How was your day?" "Alright, yours?" "Alright." - and then bed for Suresh (10:30 - 10:57). The cop followed soon after (11:03 - 11:21).
As with everything he did, Sylar had spent the last 28 days out on this flagstone, or lurking down side-alleys, listening and learning, for a reason. Nothing was pointless in his mind, everything was very much instrumental to the plan. And this particular plan was very simple.
Sylar lived for recognition. He wanted the praise, the promise that he was special, more than anything else. He thrived on that, more than he ever did on food, water or oxygen. And, sadly for Suresh, the Indian had inherited his father's inability to understand this vital character trait.
It would not have been hard for the geneticist, to keep Sylar at bay. If he had not been such a coward, tortured, gone straight to the police, and then shut him out completely when he had tried to reach out yet again, things would have been different for the both of them. He could have let him live, maybe even respected his wishes to keep the telepath and the girl safe. But you only ever get what you give.
By 12:38am, the house was silent except for the heavy breathing of people sound asleep. It was time. Moving slowly, yet deliberately, Sylar entered the building. Telekinesis moved anything that barred his way, as well as keeping the floor benath his feet from betraying him. He reached the small apartment without difficulty, even allowed himself a moment to pause there by the table and remember times past. The chair he had been tied to and tortured, the ceiling where he had responded in kind. The kitchen unit where naive Maya had cooked for her saviour. Such a shame, that Suresh had refused to help, to acknowledge him. Such a shame it had come to this, just like it had for Chandra.
The Indian's door was nudged open by telekinesis, and Sylar stepped inside. A perverse sense of privacy made him close that door then, behind him, as if somehow the inevitable was a private affair. Like a lover, coming to bed.
He would derive no pleasure from this, he knew that much already. The thought churned his stomach, his shoulders hunched against an invisible force holding him back. Like Chandra, Mohinder's death would be one that later caused him guilt, necessary as it might be. A lesson that had to be learnt. A means to an ends. And being here did help his resolve, the tick-tick-ticking from the other rooms loud and reassuring to his ears.
It took Suresh a moment to wake up, a moment for his brain to kick in and realise oxygen was no longer reaching his lungs. Fearful eyes met Sylar's then, as his fingers squeezed an imaginary windpipe, telekinetically causing the same effect on Suresh's own. Without air, the Indian could do no more than gasp, and the strength to thrash had already left him. The breathing of the cop and the girl, in the next rooms, was still slow and steady in Sylar's ears, the ticking ever present... they would not wake in time to save their protector. It was over, and his face betrayed nothing besides apology as Suresh buckled and finally fell still on his bed, mouth slack and face drained of colour.
A shame, but a necessity. He would not stand for betrayal, for abandonment, for having power kept from him. And how much easier to gain power it would now be, with the child's power and telepathy both in his arsenal. They made up for the pain in his chest that might just have been heartache, as he stepped from the dead man's bedroom. Some times, these things just had to be. It was just the way of the world.
Or, as an old friend had called it, Destiny.