Ridiculously Specific Prompt 7!
From One Serial Killer to Another...
Heroes. Sylar/Elle
Rated PG-13
Summary: This circus wasn't anything like what Elle used to watch on television--it was dirty and the tent smelled like piss and unwashed animals.
Written for Bridey’s Ridiculously Specific Prompt Table, prompt 7: What are your feelings about clowns? Include several clowns in a story. Why are there so many clowns? Are they all at the same place at the same time? Bonus: Make one of the clowns John Wayne Gacy.
(Prompt table here)
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Elle had always loved circuses. She’d never been to one, of course, because circuses were for good girls who pleased their daddies. When she was growing up, she would beg her father to let her stay up late and watch Cirque du Soleil. Sometimes she could. More often she couldn’t. She loved acrobats and dancing ponies and knife throwers and clowns--oh, how she loved clowns. The happy ones and the sad ones and the weird ones that crammed themselves into tiny cars. Elle loved clowns, but she grew up and her fondness for painted faces became secondary to her desire to be an agent--a damn good one.
So when Sylar bought her tickets to the clown show at the local carnival, Elle wasn’t exactly jumping to go. She reminded Sylar that they were supposed to be on the run--that Bonnie and Clyde didn’t make pit stops for clown shows, so why should they? Sylar pointed out that no one was actually chasing them, and didn’t Elle always say that she loved clowns? So Elle took the tickets, kissed Sylar thanks and made him get a cherry Slush-O from the greasy teenager outside the tent.
This circus wasn't anything like what Elle used to watch on television--it was dirty and the tent smelled like piss and unwashed animals. The clown tricks were clumsy and slow and they spent more time leering at women sitting in the audience than making them laugh. One of the clowns, a creepy one on the fringe of the pack, was staring at Elle. Flinching away from his gaze, she tucked her arm through Sylar’s and buried her face in his neck. “That clown is staring at me,” she muttered, jerking her head in his direction.
Sylar followed her gaze. The clown, in traditional white face make-up, was staring at something. His wide-eyed gaze was creepy and disconcerting, but even more unsettling was the vague idea that he knew that clown--had seen his face in textbooks under the heading serial killer. “Oh my God,” Sylar murmured in Elle’s ear, his breath tickling her skin. “That’s John Wayne Gacy.”
Elle craned her neck. The clown in question wiggled his fingers in an eerie wave. “Bullshit,” she said, “Gacy is dead.” Or was he? Elle tried to remember whether John Wayne Gacy was one of the serial killers who was dead or one of the ones who was still serving life in prison. What if he had broken out? Would they have heard the news? More importantly, did he target pretty blondes? Elle’s voice cracked with alarm. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Sylar just shrugged, “maybe he’s like Rasputin.” Noticing Elle’s blank stare, he continued. “He was a Russian mystic--he was killed at least four times before it actually took, and even then no one was really sure he would stay dead.”
Elle snickered, “yeah, or maybe he’s like Pom-Pom,” she suggested. “You can’t kill that little bitch either--I’ve tried.” Sylar smiled and stood up, pulling Elle with him. Nodding to the clown, he walked toward the exit, tugging Elle along. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed, "I wanted to watch the circus."
"No," Sylar said, "you wanted a clown. So I'm getting one for you."
Oh. That was a horse of a different color, so Elle allowed Sylar to drag her out of the tent and waited, expectantly, for her clown. The Gacy-look-alike appeared, slinking around the tent. He looked disappointed to see Elle standing next to Sylar, but he was a clown, after all, and he hid his thoughts behind a cheerful smile. "Looking for a private show?" He asked, waving his arms and doing a little jig in place. "You've come to the right place."
"Not quite," Sylar responded. Lifting up one hand, Sylar flicked his finger. Gacy flew through the air, collided with a trailer and toppled to the ground, groaning softly. Elle smiled. She loved clowns, but she also loved watching Sylar work. This was, as far as Elle was concerned, the best of both worlds. Gacy tried to stand, but Sylar's telekinesis pushed him down again. "I thought you were dead," he said, a note of interest creeping into his voice. "Executed. You have to tell me,” he continued, “One serial killer to another: did they get the wrong guy or do you just have nine lives?"
Gacy sat up, gasping for breath. "Like I'd ever tell you," he sneered.
Sylar smiled--a sick, crooked smile. "You'll tell me soon enough," he said, using his abilities to pin Gacy against the wall of the trailer.
“What are you going to do?” Elle asked curiously.
Sylar's grin was devious as he lifted one finger to cut open Gacy’s skull. “I always wanted to know what made him tick.”