Another Version of the Truth
Persuasion:
Through the door she came. Dressed in black and he noted how the fabric about her neck drifted closer to the edge of her smooth shoulder. He remembered how good she used to smell. Like home cooked meals and fresh laundry. She made him think of home; not his home, but the one he was supposed to grow up in. The one that put him in a house where a girl like her would be his neighbor. His something more…
He knew her. He knew he knew her ... but from where ...
And then she spoke.
In his hands, she was, with that throbbing power against his palm. He squeezed. It was going to be his.
And he forgot the gun ...
... but she hadn't.
Flo:
Sylar looked down at the list in his hands. He was at the write address. Florance Howard, live in nothing better than a whole in the wall. He sneered at his surroundings and walked on stepping over a pile of rancid garbage and ignoring the flickering light bulb in the hallway. He knocked twice on the door.
"Come in," cried the voice on the inside. He smiled to himself at the invalidation, shaking his head at the woman's carelessness. For all she knew he could be a serial- What's that smell?
"I said come in."
"Florence? Florence Howard?"
"Who's asking?" Her voice called out and it was raspy like she smoked too many cigarettes or had a cold.
"I'm here to warn you. You're in trouble Florence ... where are you?" He stepped toward the sound, foot sinking into the sogginess of a wet carpet. He looked down at the floor but it was too dark to see what he'd stepped in. And then there was that smell ...
"I'm in here, deary ..."
Sylar got the impression that he was in a living fairytale and this time he wasn't the wolf. He stepped closer anyway because he had the power. He was the one to be feared and the sooner he took her power the sooner he could leave here. The carpet continued to sop beneath his shoes.
"What the hell?"
"Sorry about the mess, deary. I can't seem to help myself." Her voice sent a batch of spiders crawling up his spine.
"Maybe I can help you. Tell me what's the matter?" he stepped into a room and then saw her sitting, crouched in a shrouded corner by what he could only guess to be a window. The light that filtered though it cast scantly onto the soaked carpet. The carpet soaked with blood.
"It won't stop. It never stops."
"What!?"
"It must be a heavy flow ..."
Gabriel's face contorted in horror as he finally realized - too late. Not just blood, but menstrual- His mind froze. Stark blankness engulfed him to protect what was left of his sanity. He didn't even remember killing her, but he was sure it was an act of mercy. And he was damn sure he didn't take that monstrous ability.
"Fuck that shit!"
Clairvoyance:
She was here. He felt it, somewhere. He had her in his hands.
The little one.
He could have killed her. He didn't.
He didn't know why ... he told himself.
Except; he did know why.
‘Suffer the little children unto me.”
She was in his hands and he ... hesitated.
She screamed and all he could think was to bring her with him.
Why?
He was actually relieved when the agent Hanson and that nobody cop finally showed up.
Emotional empathy:
“So what's that like?”
“It's like feeling everything, all at once, all the time.
“So you can feel what I'm feeling right now?
“I can.”
“...”
“...”
“Well, I already know what that's like ... I don't know if I want to feel what other people are-”
“You don't, believe me.”
“You're just tying to save your own skin.”
“Am I? This is driving me crazy actually and what you have planned for me-it would be a relief.”
Sylar frowned at that. He thought about all the people he'd hurt (and would continue to hurt). He wouldn't want to go through what they did when he took from them. He already felt it to a degree. A very small degree but enough so that it felt like a penance when he did (kill, murder) relieve them. And if he ever ran into Peter again or Claire or Maya ...
"I think you're right on this one man." He said as he stood to talk away. "Good luck with that."
"Fuck you. You're just going to leave me like this?"
Sylar thought about it for a while. Maybe he could help. "Maybe you want to live on a deserted island or become a hermit in the woods. That might help."
"Animals … help. They are pretty basic in a way that humans aren't. It's refreshing actually ..."
"See, I don't have to kill you, and you can go out and do the Dr. Doolittle thing. Everyone wins." Sylar picked up a quant mantle clock inspecting it, turning it over in his hands. He felt as the man came up behind him and turned to meet his stare.
"You must be some kind of bastard." He said.
"I do alright." Sylar said as he walked out the door.
Moist
Sylar subtlety wiped a palm on his pant leg after shaking hands with the man before setting down in a hard plastic chair. Most everything in the man's apartment was covered in plastic and anything that wasn't was soggy in one way or another.
"Sorry about the puddles, dude." He said, "I can't have carpet, it's gets moldy."
"So, what is it that you do again?"
"I can make things moist ..."
"Is that it?
"No! That's not it! ... I can dampen them too. Make them clammy, dampish, dank, and dewy; which are all very big difference when taking into account various degrees of moisture.
“So, you're basically just wet all the time?”
“Not ‘wet’ asshole. Moist. And there are a lot of good uses for my power.”
Sylar left before Moist could list them all.
Poison Emission:
He wanted it. He thought he did. There were so many times when he drew his fingers over her scalp thinking how her hair was in the way of what he really wanted. Just beneath the surface, the soft tissue beneath the hard bone. He'd run his fingers over her crown and she'd smile (stupidly) up at him.
But as the time went on and his hunger grew he thought less about the power. ... that wasn't entirely the truth. He wanted the power, but she kept getting in the way with those smiles. -blinding- The way she looked at him and the way she felt under his fingers became more about the way she felt -soft- and not how it would be like to have the piece of. Thoughts crept in, wondering of not owning pieces, but the whole being.
All Mine.
Why takes pieces when a complete work was just so ... absolute. He could make good use of the vessel.
Sure it would be a challenge but Sylar was anything but lazy. And how he did love a good challenge.
He thinks to himself from time to time -when his mind wonders to a thought that escapes him when he tries to focus- of the powers he could have taken but hadn't ... for some reason. It haunts him when all that comes to mind are dark eyes and darker -soft- hair. His fingers always twitch with the almost memory.