[Closed RP: Sylar and Peter] The Last Resort Comes... First?
((OOC: I have been given permission by the wonderful mun to have my wicked way with Sylar's unconscious body. Whoops, that sounds a bit naughty. It's not like that, you dirty pervs. Jesus.))
If it was one thing Peter was not, it was most definitely a ninja.
Invisible sneaking was one thing, but it didn't really work when the person you were going to be sneaking up on had super hearing. Peter had never been great at summoning up his abilities on a whim - but desperation, it seemed, lent a helping hand.
It was almost too easy. He'd frozen time a good distance from Sylar's door - which he'd found using Molly's ability - and that had taken a good hour to get right. The first time he tried, he'd ended up knocking on a different door and being confronted with an angry talking rabbit. That had been weird.
Time suitably frozen, all he'd needed to do was walk into Sylar's room, and neatly jab him in the neck with a hypodermic full of sedative.
For a long time (after he restarted it and let Sylar pass out on the floor in regular time), Peter just stood at stared at Sylar, as if he expected the man to jump up again. It felt like hours - every nerve on edge, his breathing shallow, rapid heart rate - but in reality, it was only a few minutes. The nurse in him kicked in, and told him that the sedative he'd just pumped into Sylar would keep him down for at least a few hours.
Peter let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes. He thought of the blonde woman at Kirby Plaza, the one with family - the one who had picked up a parking meter and hit Sylar with it. Scattered concentration meant that feeling the additional strength came slowly, but as soon as he felt it, Peter grabbed Sylar's motionless arm and began dragging him through the hallway as if he were nothing more than a sack of potatoes.
The Slytherin dungeons. Not a place that Peter expected to be voted into, but ultimately, a place with enough rooms that nobody even ventured near.
As he walked, Peter could feel his resolve growing. Sylar was a serial killer, a ruthless murderer who took brains for no other reason than to gain their abilities. Selfish, without morals, sociopath, just.. wrong. He had to do this, otherwise there were people who wouldn't be safe here. And Sylar's very existence in the present was Peter's fault - he hadn't stopped him when he had the chance, he'd been too distracted by his own lack of control. This was his fault, and he had to rectify it.
By whatever means possible.
The room he'd found was out of the way of the regular flow of people in the school, at the end of a corridor - completely empty, save for the solidly built wooden chair Peter had dragged in. With little effort, he hefted Sylar up and all but tossed him onto the chair, absently wiping his hand on his trousers afterwards. There was a box in the corner - supplies that Peter had stolen from the nearest hospital, taking a leaf out of Claude's metaphorical How To book - sedatives, restraints, medical supplies.
Giving himself no time to think, Peter fastened the material lined restraint around Sylar's wrists and to the arm of the chair, stopping them just short of cutting off circulation. He could barely do it due to the shaking of his hands.
Once he was finished, he retreated to the closed door and leaned his forehead against it, closing his eyes and hoping the cool wood would calm his nerves. God, he had no idea what he was doing.
That was a lie, though. Peter knew exactly what he was doing. For once in his life, he'd thought as methodically as he could without blindly rushing into something first. After running to save the cheerleader, and dying, running away, and not getting enough help (and dying, again), and blowing up - Peter had began to realize that maybe methodical thinking had something for it. That had always been Nathan's expertise, and maybe it was time that Peter took a leaf out of his book, too.
Not that Nathan seemed terribly happy with this plan, either. Peter didn't blame him.
Sylar couldn't die here - the anti-death spell made sure of that. But he was still after abilities, and Peter had no clue if the spell would actually stop him from cutting into peoples heads. Peter didn't want to take the risk that it was possible. So he couldn't kill Sylar, couldn't make him leave, but he had to stop him somehow. There wasn't enough psychotherapy in the world to deal with him, so the only other option... was keeping him locked up. (Or, at least, it had been the only other option that Peter had been able to think of.)
He didn't want to hurt Sylar unnecessarily, even though he deserved it. There'd be no beating around, no forced drug addictions, no blackmail, and no harsh interrogation. (And Peter had clearly been watching too many cop movies if he thought that was the usual thing). He just had to keep Sylar confused enough, weak enough, to stop him from killing.
Peter considered himself a humanitarian - violence was not necessary. But he had to stop Sylar somehow, and this was the only way.
Tearing himself from his thoughts, Peter opened his eyes again, trying to focus his vision. He turned around and slid down to sit on the floor, his back against the door and his arms wrapped around his bent knees. Sighing heavily, he let his head drop against his knee, preparing to stay in this for the long haul. He'd have to monitor Sylar, almost 24/7. God only knew when he was going to sleep next, or eat, for that matter.
Now he just had to wait for Sylar to wake up.
If it was one thing Peter was not, it was most definitely a ninja.
Invisible sneaking was one thing, but it didn't really work when the person you were going to be sneaking up on had super hearing. Peter had never been great at summoning up his abilities on a whim - but desperation, it seemed, lent a helping hand.
It was almost too easy. He'd frozen time a good distance from Sylar's door - which he'd found using Molly's ability - and that had taken a good hour to get right. The first time he tried, he'd ended up knocking on a different door and being confronted with an angry talking rabbit. That had been weird.
Time suitably frozen, all he'd needed to do was walk into Sylar's room, and neatly jab him in the neck with a hypodermic full of sedative.
For a long time (after he restarted it and let Sylar pass out on the floor in regular time), Peter just stood at stared at Sylar, as if he expected the man to jump up again. It felt like hours - every nerve on edge, his breathing shallow, rapid heart rate - but in reality, it was only a few minutes. The nurse in him kicked in, and told him that the sedative he'd just pumped into Sylar would keep him down for at least a few hours.
Peter let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes. He thought of the blonde woman at Kirby Plaza, the one with family - the one who had picked up a parking meter and hit Sylar with it. Scattered concentration meant that feeling the additional strength came slowly, but as soon as he felt it, Peter grabbed Sylar's motionless arm and began dragging him through the hallway as if he were nothing more than a sack of potatoes.
The Slytherin dungeons. Not a place that Peter expected to be voted into, but ultimately, a place with enough rooms that nobody even ventured near.
As he walked, Peter could feel his resolve growing. Sylar was a serial killer, a ruthless murderer who took brains for no other reason than to gain their abilities. Selfish, without morals, sociopath, just.. wrong. He had to do this, otherwise there were people who wouldn't be safe here. And Sylar's very existence in the present was Peter's fault - he hadn't stopped him when he had the chance, he'd been too distracted by his own lack of control. This was his fault, and he had to rectify it.
By whatever means possible.
The room he'd found was out of the way of the regular flow of people in the school, at the end of a corridor - completely empty, save for the solidly built wooden chair Peter had dragged in. With little effort, he hefted Sylar up and all but tossed him onto the chair, absently wiping his hand on his trousers afterwards. There was a box in the corner - supplies that Peter had stolen from the nearest hospital, taking a leaf out of Claude's metaphorical How To book - sedatives, restraints, medical supplies.
Giving himself no time to think, Peter fastened the material lined restraint around Sylar's wrists and to the arm of the chair, stopping them just short of cutting off circulation. He could barely do it due to the shaking of his hands.
Once he was finished, he retreated to the closed door and leaned his forehead against it, closing his eyes and hoping the cool wood would calm his nerves. God, he had no idea what he was doing.
That was a lie, though. Peter knew exactly what he was doing. For once in his life, he'd thought as methodically as he could without blindly rushing into something first. After running to save the cheerleader, and dying, running away, and not getting enough help (and dying, again), and blowing up - Peter had began to realize that maybe methodical thinking had something for it. That had always been Nathan's expertise, and maybe it was time that Peter took a leaf out of his book, too.
Not that Nathan seemed terribly happy with this plan, either. Peter didn't blame him.
Sylar couldn't die here - the anti-death spell made sure of that. But he was still after abilities, and Peter had no clue if the spell would actually stop him from cutting into peoples heads. Peter didn't want to take the risk that it was possible. So he couldn't kill Sylar, couldn't make him leave, but he had to stop him somehow. There wasn't enough psychotherapy in the world to deal with him, so the only other option... was keeping him locked up. (Or, at least, it had been the only other option that Peter had been able to think of.)
He didn't want to hurt Sylar unnecessarily, even though he deserved it. There'd be no beating around, no forced drug addictions, no blackmail, and no harsh interrogation. (And Peter had clearly been watching too many cop movies if he thought that was the usual thing). He just had to keep Sylar confused enough, weak enough, to stop him from killing.
Peter considered himself a humanitarian - violence was not necessary. But he had to stop Sylar somehow, and this was the only way.
Tearing himself from his thoughts, Peter opened his eyes again, trying to focus his vision. He turned around and slid down to sit on the floor, his back against the door and his arms wrapped around his bent knees. Sighing heavily, he let his head drop against his knee, preparing to stay in this for the long haul. He'd have to monitor Sylar, almost 24/7. God only knew when he was going to sleep next, or eat, for that matter.
Now he just had to wait for Sylar to wake up.