Fic: Syncretic Division (Heroes; Nathan)
I've gotten so used to writing in new and tiny fandoms lately (The State Within, The Tudors), it feels very strange to suddenly turn and try my hand at Heroes. Everything I can think of to write seems to have already been written. So, warnings for unoriginality.
Drabble fic. Written for mimesere for the 'Write Me Fic' meme.
Her prompt was: Nathan in the season one finale.
Syncretic Division
Applause, one crest rolling into the next, amplifying. Congratulations -- all those meaningful, heartfelt words -- lost, indistinct, drowned in wave after wave. Till there is only the roar. A roar continuous, thunderous against his eardrums. His destiny pressing down. Calling.
Responsibilities to some are a loaded chamber, ever-steeper odds in Russian roulette. Quite literally, in his father's case.
"We don't know what we can carry, until one day we can't." Nice one, dad.
His mother looks at him. Nathan doesn't return her smile. Responsibilities are what he's trained for. Approval from others is unnecessary; something reserved only for his father, and now Peter.
He does not want to think about Peter. Not now, not in the moment of this compromised, unclean victory.
"Don't eye the job if your conscience isn't up for it."
The world needs liars, gamblers, lawyers. It needs leaders; curses and reviles them, but needs all the same. If he's good at it, world may even love him, but that comes down to the luck of the draw.
*
Always, the bond has gone both ways. Tip and sinking of gravity. Like drawn to like. Always, the sixth sense.
"Claire!"
He wants to tell Peter that it is as natural as breathing -- hearing your brother's thoughts -- but this is no time to divulge secrets. Needs must dictate action, not desires.
Between them is the static that is Peter's confusion. And names. Sylar. Claire. Monster and prey.
Nathan does not count his blessings as Peter breaks into a run. Dark blur. Smooth as ink-spill. Disappears.
What now?
Mask still on, he faces his mother and daughter. Trust would be easier if they were only strangers. He knows only one way to protect them all. Make them believe, he thinks.
If on the helicopter they see the sky above on fire, Nathan hopes they won't realise who is at the centre.
*
Angela Petrelli does not fret or panic. Claire would be all right on her own, she decides.
They reach the helicopter pad, just the two of them. Nathan's legs drag. Torn between explanations, he cannot prevent a heaviness in his movements.
I have to do this.
I couldn't tell you before.
I don't expect you to understand.
Be kind to my wife. Lie to her.
His mother notices. "Nathan. No." Face utterly white. An old woman's face. The last days have been hard on her. Those haunted eyes must mirror his own.
"I'm sorry, Ma."
"Don't leave me, Nathan. Think of the future. We need you."
Miles away across the city, Peter tugs on the corner of his mind. Pain. Violence. Uncontainable heat. He is running short on time.
"You should get out of here, Ma. Just in case."
Quick. To be weightless.
He steps back, off the roof, and her shapely hands catch the empty air.
*
"There are no free gifts. Final lesson, Nate."
Heidi's legs. The boys. The election. His daughter. The devil has a long memory and he always collects.
"You saved the cheerleader, so we could save the world." Are they still speaking out loud? Primordial stars collide and die in their briefly shared seconds.
"I love you, too," he says. Or thinks it. Peter accepts this as he would the existence of time, space, and other unmeasurable, unequivocal things.
As though destined, every prophet's vision a refraction of this -- as though nothing could hold them apart --
They rise together.
29 June 2007
Drabble fic. Written for mimesere for the 'Write Me Fic' meme.
Her prompt was: Nathan in the season one finale.
Syncretic Division
Applause, one crest rolling into the next, amplifying. Congratulations -- all those meaningful, heartfelt words -- lost, indistinct, drowned in wave after wave. Till there is only the roar. A roar continuous, thunderous against his eardrums. His destiny pressing down. Calling.
Responsibilities to some are a loaded chamber, ever-steeper odds in Russian roulette. Quite literally, in his father's case.
"We don't know what we can carry, until one day we can't." Nice one, dad.
His mother looks at him. Nathan doesn't return her smile. Responsibilities are what he's trained for. Approval from others is unnecessary; something reserved only for his father, and now Peter.
He does not want to think about Peter. Not now, not in the moment of this compromised, unclean victory.
"Don't eye the job if your conscience isn't up for it."
The world needs liars, gamblers, lawyers. It needs leaders; curses and reviles them, but needs all the same. If he's good at it, world may even love him, but that comes down to the luck of the draw.
*
Always, the bond has gone both ways. Tip and sinking of gravity. Like drawn to like. Always, the sixth sense.
"Claire!"
He wants to tell Peter that it is as natural as breathing -- hearing your brother's thoughts -- but this is no time to divulge secrets. Needs must dictate action, not desires.
Between them is the static that is Peter's confusion. And names. Sylar. Claire. Monster and prey.
Nathan does not count his blessings as Peter breaks into a run. Dark blur. Smooth as ink-spill. Disappears.
What now?
Mask still on, he faces his mother and daughter. Trust would be easier if they were only strangers. He knows only one way to protect them all. Make them believe, he thinks.
If on the helicopter they see the sky above on fire, Nathan hopes they won't realise who is at the centre.
*
Angela Petrelli does not fret or panic. Claire would be all right on her own, she decides.
They reach the helicopter pad, just the two of them. Nathan's legs drag. Torn between explanations, he cannot prevent a heaviness in his movements.
I have to do this.
I couldn't tell you before.
I don't expect you to understand.
Be kind to my wife. Lie to her.
His mother notices. "Nathan. No." Face utterly white. An old woman's face. The last days have been hard on her. Those haunted eyes must mirror his own.
"I'm sorry, Ma."
"Don't leave me, Nathan. Think of the future. We need you."
Miles away across the city, Peter tugs on the corner of his mind. Pain. Violence. Uncontainable heat. He is running short on time.
"You should get out of here, Ma. Just in case."
Quick. To be weightless.
He steps back, off the roof, and her shapely hands catch the empty air.
*
"There are no free gifts. Final lesson, Nate."
Heidi's legs. The boys. The election. His daughter. The devil has a long memory and he always collects.
"You saved the cheerleader, so we could save the world." Are they still speaking out loud? Primordial stars collide and die in their briefly shared seconds.
"I love you, too," he says. Or thinks it. Peter accepts this as he would the existence of time, space, and other unmeasurable, unequivocal things.
As though destined, every prophet's vision a refraction of this -- as though nothing could hold them apart --
They rise together.
29 June 2007