For Sylar

[downsidedarling]

Diana's been having a bad day.

"Oh look," she grumbles. "Another man. I bet he's a rapist. The last ten men I checked out of this shithole were fucking rapists."

She places a hand on the oval window and closes her eyes.

Comments

[the_brain_man]

The first time, the very first time, he killed with his hands. If he’d expected anything, it would have been for murder to be difficult - but Brian Davis just stopped, a watch with the coil ripped out, a defunct piece to be scavenged for salvageable parts

[downsidedarling]

"Cute girl. Chatty. Short hair. Tiny tits. C'mon, something tells me you ain't the type to forget 'em. It says equivalency - so you didn't kill her, but she died 'cause of you. Ring a bell?"

Without waiting for an answer she fixes Sylar with a gimlet stare.

"Let me make one thing perfectly fucking clear. You're going to stay the fuck away from her. Got it?"

[the_brain_man]

And he does remember - as clear as if it happened minutes ago, Eden McCain walking into the cell with a pistol, the rush of he could see again, how things worked, he was no longer blind, the order that slid into place in his mind and could have been in his own voice had she not turned the gun on herself-

He raises his left hand, snaps it into a fist - the door locks with an audible click as an invisible force seizes Eights and drags her till she’s inches in front of Sylar’s intense, unblinking expression.

“Where is she?”

[downsidedarling]

Eights chuckles. "There ain't a hope in hell I'm gonna tell you that, babe. Nice trick you got there." Her voice is almost a purr. She smiles, full and wide, into Sylar's face.

[the_brain_man]

“It’s not the only thing I can do,” he tells her, a hint of a sneer about him. And now he has a second chance to add to that collection - Eden McCain, Peter Petrelli (he must have died, the painting had been so clear), all those little red names on the list marked deceased, all lined up and waiting for him.

“What happens when someone dies down here? Does it- hurt?”

A twist of his hand, a telekinetic blow to her gut. If she won’t do it voluntarily, he’ll make her tell him.

[downsidedarling]

"It hurts just as much as it does when you die out there. Only down here it ain't permanent."

Eights grins. "Come on, you know my job. You really think you can beat this out of me? You're smarter than that. You blew your chance at getting me to cover your sentence. Enjoy your little chat with Jasmine, and get the fuck out."

[the_brain_man]

CRACK.

It only takes a twitch of Sylar’s finger to break one of Eights’.

He continues to stare at her, unblinking.

[downsidedarling]

It would take quite the pair of ears to hear that infinitesmal sigh, the murmur of a lover awakening briefly in the night. Eights' grin widens.

"You can do better than that," she challenges. "C'mon, gimme some fuckin' effort here, I'm feeling underappreciated."

[the_brain_man]

Sylar hears it.

He cants his head, watching her face in minute detail, and says softly:

“What would it take to make you tell me?”

The sound is softer, this time, almost a pleasant popping: an arm bone, splitting lengthways under an invisible wedge, very slowly.

[downsidedarling]

Eight-Hour hums happily, her grin softening into a sleepy smile.

"You have a lot of potential," she purrs. "If I didn't hate your guts I'd take your contract just for the pride of it."

She doesn't answer his question.

[the_brain_man]

There are thirty-three vertebrae in the human spine, and but for the very lowest of them, all are separated by little discs of cartilage. Incidentally, each and every one of those vertebrae contains nerves geared and evolved and dedicated to transmitting signals - pain foremost among these. (They do their job well. He’s felt it first-hand.)

Just imagine the feeling when, starting from the bottom and working their way up, those little discs of cartilage begin to shake themselves free, sliding out of position, sucking the rest of the spine down into precarious impact each time, one-

Sylar smiles.

-by-

He moves closer.

-one.

“Where?”

[downsidedarling]

"No--" She inhales sharply. "--dice, babe. Oh, man--" Another gasp, echoing another wrenched disk. "--you are creative." Her tone of voice says she approves. So, more subtly, does her fluttering heartbeat.

[the_brain_man]

His smile twitches.

With an angry gesture, Eights is flung into the air, to hang suspended there like a puppet with its strings tangled - and all those loose discs of cartilage, sitting there in her flesh?

Out they come. Fast, and in all directions.

[downsidedarling]

One of them knocks the dart out of the dartboard. Eight-Hour just laughs as she drips blood on her office floor.

"Is that all you got?" she asks with a smirk.

[the_brain_man]

“I imagine you’d thrive here.”

Sylar lowers her a little, the better to see; his head is tilted curiously to one side, and his eyes are on her face, though they don’t seem to be quite in focus.

“So many souls waiting to be tortured, and you…”

He’s still frowning, though it’s no longer an angry expression. So that’s the reason she’s a contractor, the only one who’d endure Jasmine. Is it also the meaning of the slight judder to every third tick, the infinitesimal impurity in the mechanism that he assumed before was caused by being dead?

He may also be looking a little disgusted. Just a little.

[downsidedarling]

"I got myself something you might call a gift," she says raggedly. "Gettin' hurt don't bother me like it does most people."

Eights chuckles.

"Don't you make that face at me," she murmurs with a lopsided grin. "Je suis dans le pays des rêves qui vole les yeux-- we all start likin' it after we've been doin' it for long enough."