(no subject)
Title: Define Dangerous
Characters: Sylar, Claire.
Spoilers: Up to Season 2.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2039
Chapter: 16/?
Previously: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15
Summary: While escaping the Company, Sylar meets up with someone from his past. Together, they must piece together some semblance of normality after years of captivity. Future AU.
Minutes slowed to an agonizing crawl making it impossible for Sylar to tell how long he'd been stuck in the same position, suspended from the ceiling and forced to stand on his toes because of the shortness of the rope. It was growing dark in the warehouse, the setting afternoon sun casting an eerie light on the room.
The sound of rats scurrying in the corner as they woke from slumber and started peeking out into the rest of the world, looking for food, could be made out distinctly even through Sylar's ordinary hearing. He hated rats. They always reminded him of that day on Kirby Plaza when he'd climbing into that sewer drain to wait for death. At least that would have been an honorable death, being stabbed in the middle of battle while trying to destroy the world. It beat out being snuffed by some company sycophant.
Fate gave him a second chance with that first near-death experience though. With Candice's gracious help and her illusionary parlor tricks, he'd been nursed back to almost perfect health. He'd thanked her for that kindness by attempting to take her powers, killing her in the process. Some people would just send flowers and a thank you card, but no, Sylar was different.
This is all he had to occupy his time, recalling his glory days while Prescott made some calls to figure out what the company wanted to do with him. They still had those termination papers, a formality that made them appear civilized when they so clearly were far from that idealized vision of themselves.
He attempted to switch position, stepping up with one foot and resting the other. Everything hurt. The balls of his feet were aching from arching all day as he stood on his toes. That was nothing next to the misery his arms were in though. The pain of all his weight hanging from his two wrists, as they were strung up over his head and tied to the ceiling beam was nearly unbearable. A burning ache ran all the way from his chest through his upper arms, reaching into his hands and fingers.
All day, Sylar worked at the rope, until his skin rubbed raw and drops of blood began to drip down his arms like raindrops, trickling down to his shirt and coating everything with a sticky mess. He laughed to himself, almost delirious due to the coupling of pain and dehydration. The laughing turned into harsh coughing, which made his muscles ache even more.
Prescott entered the cement and brick building, flicking the overhead lights on without warning. Sylar blinked against its brightness. One of the rats scurried across the cement floor, hurrying out of the way of predators. It stopped to pick up a crumb left behind by one of the factory worker's lunches and then ducked under a stack of crates, hidden from view.
Prescott wasted no time getting down to business. “I just got off the phone with the Odessa branch of the company. They've given me orders to proceed with your termination. You do remember signing the papers for that, correct?”
Sylar placed both feet on the floor, ignoring the pain so he could stand as tall as he could to match the other man's height. It was the most he could do to show dominance in this situation. He shrugged, putting on the bravest act he could. He wasn't about to be led to the gallows with his tail between his legs. They weren't going to get the satisfaction of breaking him. “After taking away my powers, you might as well.”
“I take it you've thought about the deal I offered you, Gabriel.” Prescott set a metal briefcase on the table, clicked it open and displayed the contents full of medical supplies. He plucked the vial off the table, from where it sat all day, taunting Sylar with the future he could have chosen. A future where he could be free but where Claire would be dead. “And have decided against all logic not to take it. It's a pity, a man of your many, considerable talents and you're going to let them go to waste.”
Sylar watched as Prescott set the red vial into a small slot in the briefcase. With it packed away, Sylar's options were cut off. Prescott proceeded to pulled out a hypodermic needle, already filled with something else.
It seemed there was no shortage of drugs they wanted to pump into his system: one to make him docile, another to keep him weak, one more to experiment on him with, yet another to make him have unending nightmarish pain. They truly were a sadistic bunch. He murmured in masochistic amusement,“One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small. What exactly does that one do?”
“Potassium chloride.” Prescott showed great reverence for the drug. He seemed in awe of it and the powers it possessed, like a child playing with his favorite toy. “The government created it to administer to prisoners on death row.”
“I'm going to die by lethal injection, then?” Sylar stiffened but would not let himself inch away. Every part of him wanted to run, to hide, like he used to do whenever the bullies would pick a fight with him on the playground. This bully in particular was not threatening to take his lunch money; he was threating to take his life, which was all the more demeaning.
This was not the way he pictured going out. There was supposed to be an epic battle, some flashy show of powers and meaningful last words. Maybe an explosion or two. Not just a whimper in the middle of some empty, abandoned warehouse.
“It's fitting, isn't it? You were on the FBI's most wanted list for five years running, before Primatech deleted all record of your existence. Society has decided that you are too dangerous to be allowed to live and now justice must be carried out.” Prescott neared his helpless hostage, each step echoing against the dense emptiness of the warehouse and mixing with Sylar's rapid heartbeat. He held the needle up to Sylar's neck, about to plunge it in. Then he stopped and told him, “A hundred milliequivalents of this stuff and you'll be dead within seven minutes. It'll feel like nothing but an ordinary.. normal.. garden-variety heart attack.”
Prescott tapped the hypodermic needle gently against the veins that rose in Sylar's neck, finding pleasure in describing how ordinary Sylar's death would be. He'd obviously done his homework and the case notes on his subject very carefully. An ordinary death would bring no meaning and in the end no one would remember his name, which in Sylar's eyes was the equivalent of being condemned to hell.
“I'm sorry but if you will not meet us halfway, there's really nothing more that can be done.” He fingered the push button on the end of the needle, playing with it and teasing his victim.
Sylar closed his eyes, unable to watch while his life was about to be taken from him. He flinched away as he felt the tip of the needle rest against his skin, hating himself for not being stronger. Giving into his fear was weak, it made him feel small and helpless but still, right before Prescott plunged the potassium chloride into him, Sylar shouted, “Wait.. wait! Stop! Okay, please, I want to take the deal.” He opened his eyes, still flinching and waited for a response as he begged for his life. “I want to take it! I'll get you Claire!”
Prescott chuckled to himself but pulled the needle away, not spilling a drop of the lethal dose. “You advanced humans are all the same. So damn predictable.”
Returning to the table, Prescott placed the potassium chloride filled needle back into its slot in the briefcase. He then retrieved another and began to fill it with the blue liquid, the one that would bring Sylar's powers back. Pretty soon, Sylar would be almost omnipotent again. Somehow that didn't make him feel any less disgusted with himself.
Sylar starred at the ground. There was not quite enough words in the world to describe how much he resented his final choice of giving in to this asshole and agreeing to sacrifice Claire. The company won and he had finally caved.
Before Sylar could look up again, Prescott had cut the rope between his wrists and the ceiling. He was too startled by the sudden freedom that all he could do was fall ungracefully and collapse onto the floor. He ended up face down on the cement floor, nearly breaking his nose with nothing to break his fall while his hands remained tied together. He groaned, unable to move for the time being as he gathered what little was left of his energy.
Prescott worked quickly, pulling down the waistband of Sylar's pants to expose fleshy muscle just soft enough to sink the tip of the needle into. Sylar couldn't see what the other man was doing but was certain that it was the right drug this time. They wouldn't let him renege on his deal. “You have one day, Sylar. Only one. You're to bring Claire to us by tomorrow night or we will hunt the both of you down. And we will kill you. Is this understood?”
He winced as the needle dove down, flooding his body with the substance that would bring his powers back. His forehead rested against the cool cement floor. Sylar felt the side of his face where he had fallen growing black and blue. His voice was muffled but the meaning clear. “I hope you realize that as soon as my powers return, your orders won't mean a thing to me. You won't be able to hurt us again. You won't even be able to find us.”
Prescott sliced the remaining ropes between Sylar's wrists, still unafraid and unfazed. He kicked Sylar in the side, rolling him over onto his back. “I'll be gone long before you wake up. You see, I've taken the liberty of lacing the Troflexim with a sleeping agent. This way I'll be able to escape while you're getting some much needed rest before you go out there on your first field assignment.” He placed his boot on Sylar's stomach, pressing down onto his lungs as he rested his arm on his knee. “And if you fail to follow this assignment, I will personally make sure you are caught and not given any more second chances.”
“How would you even find me?” Sylar coughed out, the weight of Prescott's heel on his chest making it hard to breath. The sleeping agent was working quickly, leaving him exhausted and ready to conk out.
Prescott laughed. “When you were unconscious last night, I placed a tracker in your neck.” He took out what looked like a PDA, bringing it right up to Sylar's face. He tapped the screen, pointing to the bleep on the map, the one that was flashing at the corner of Whitehall and South streets. “This is you. And wherever you are, I won't be far behind. Remember that if you try to outrun or hide from us.”
Prescott backed up, giving him one last kick for good measure. As Sylar began the quick descent into the world of unconsciousness, Prescott returned to the table and packed up his belongings. Snapping the briefcase shut, he walked out and shut off the lights, leaving Sylar laying on the floor of the warehouse, dizzy and sleepy.
The company had won a significant battle in the war that seemed to wage between them forever. After so many years of swearing that he would never play their games or work for them, the company finally forced Sylar into their submission. It was a necessary defeat, the last clear thoughts in his head told him. Either Sylar played their game on their terms this round or he stopped playing completely.
Death may have been a nobler choice but he didn't aspire to be noble.
He only wanted to survive.
And survival called for sacrifices.
Characters: Sylar, Claire.
Spoilers: Up to Season 2.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2039
Chapter: 16/?
Previously: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15
Summary: While escaping the Company, Sylar meets up with someone from his past. Together, they must piece together some semblance of normality after years of captivity. Future AU.
Minutes slowed to an agonizing crawl making it impossible for Sylar to tell how long he'd been stuck in the same position, suspended from the ceiling and forced to stand on his toes because of the shortness of the rope. It was growing dark in the warehouse, the setting afternoon sun casting an eerie light on the room.
The sound of rats scurrying in the corner as they woke from slumber and started peeking out into the rest of the world, looking for food, could be made out distinctly even through Sylar's ordinary hearing. He hated rats. They always reminded him of that day on Kirby Plaza when he'd climbing into that sewer drain to wait for death. At least that would have been an honorable death, being stabbed in the middle of battle while trying to destroy the world. It beat out being snuffed by some company sycophant.
Fate gave him a second chance with that first near-death experience though. With Candice's gracious help and her illusionary parlor tricks, he'd been nursed back to almost perfect health. He'd thanked her for that kindness by attempting to take her powers, killing her in the process. Some people would just send flowers and a thank you card, but no, Sylar was different.
This is all he had to occupy his time, recalling his glory days while Prescott made some calls to figure out what the company wanted to do with him. They still had those termination papers, a formality that made them appear civilized when they so clearly were far from that idealized vision of themselves.
He attempted to switch position, stepping up with one foot and resting the other. Everything hurt. The balls of his feet were aching from arching all day as he stood on his toes. That was nothing next to the misery his arms were in though. The pain of all his weight hanging from his two wrists, as they were strung up over his head and tied to the ceiling beam was nearly unbearable. A burning ache ran all the way from his chest through his upper arms, reaching into his hands and fingers.
All day, Sylar worked at the rope, until his skin rubbed raw and drops of blood began to drip down his arms like raindrops, trickling down to his shirt and coating everything with a sticky mess. He laughed to himself, almost delirious due to the coupling of pain and dehydration. The laughing turned into harsh coughing, which made his muscles ache even more.
Prescott entered the cement and brick building, flicking the overhead lights on without warning. Sylar blinked against its brightness. One of the rats scurried across the cement floor, hurrying out of the way of predators. It stopped to pick up a crumb left behind by one of the factory worker's lunches and then ducked under a stack of crates, hidden from view.
Prescott wasted no time getting down to business. “I just got off the phone with the Odessa branch of the company. They've given me orders to proceed with your termination. You do remember signing the papers for that, correct?”
Sylar placed both feet on the floor, ignoring the pain so he could stand as tall as he could to match the other man's height. It was the most he could do to show dominance in this situation. He shrugged, putting on the bravest act he could. He wasn't about to be led to the gallows with his tail between his legs. They weren't going to get the satisfaction of breaking him. “After taking away my powers, you might as well.”
“I take it you've thought about the deal I offered you, Gabriel.” Prescott set a metal briefcase on the table, clicked it open and displayed the contents full of medical supplies. He plucked the vial off the table, from where it sat all day, taunting Sylar with the future he could have chosen. A future where he could be free but where Claire would be dead. “And have decided against all logic not to take it. It's a pity, a man of your many, considerable talents and you're going to let them go to waste.”
Sylar watched as Prescott set the red vial into a small slot in the briefcase. With it packed away, Sylar's options were cut off. Prescott proceeded to pulled out a hypodermic needle, already filled with something else.
It seemed there was no shortage of drugs they wanted to pump into his system: one to make him docile, another to keep him weak, one more to experiment on him with, yet another to make him have unending nightmarish pain. They truly were a sadistic bunch. He murmured in masochistic amusement,“One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small. What exactly does that one do?”
“Potassium chloride.” Prescott showed great reverence for the drug. He seemed in awe of it and the powers it possessed, like a child playing with his favorite toy. “The government created it to administer to prisoners on death row.”
“I'm going to die by lethal injection, then?” Sylar stiffened but would not let himself inch away. Every part of him wanted to run, to hide, like he used to do whenever the bullies would pick a fight with him on the playground. This bully in particular was not threatening to take his lunch money; he was threating to take his life, which was all the more demeaning.
This was not the way he pictured going out. There was supposed to be an epic battle, some flashy show of powers and meaningful last words. Maybe an explosion or two. Not just a whimper in the middle of some empty, abandoned warehouse.
“It's fitting, isn't it? You were on the FBI's most wanted list for five years running, before Primatech deleted all record of your existence. Society has decided that you are too dangerous to be allowed to live and now justice must be carried out.” Prescott neared his helpless hostage, each step echoing against the dense emptiness of the warehouse and mixing with Sylar's rapid heartbeat. He held the needle up to Sylar's neck, about to plunge it in. Then he stopped and told him, “A hundred milliequivalents of this stuff and you'll be dead within seven minutes. It'll feel like nothing but an ordinary.. normal.. garden-variety heart attack.”
Prescott tapped the hypodermic needle gently against the veins that rose in Sylar's neck, finding pleasure in describing how ordinary Sylar's death would be. He'd obviously done his homework and the case notes on his subject very carefully. An ordinary death would bring no meaning and in the end no one would remember his name, which in Sylar's eyes was the equivalent of being condemned to hell.
“I'm sorry but if you will not meet us halfway, there's really nothing more that can be done.” He fingered the push button on the end of the needle, playing with it and teasing his victim.
Sylar closed his eyes, unable to watch while his life was about to be taken from him. He flinched away as he felt the tip of the needle rest against his skin, hating himself for not being stronger. Giving into his fear was weak, it made him feel small and helpless but still, right before Prescott plunged the potassium chloride into him, Sylar shouted, “Wait.. wait! Stop! Okay, please, I want to take the deal.” He opened his eyes, still flinching and waited for a response as he begged for his life. “I want to take it! I'll get you Claire!”
Prescott chuckled to himself but pulled the needle away, not spilling a drop of the lethal dose. “You advanced humans are all the same. So damn predictable.”
Returning to the table, Prescott placed the potassium chloride filled needle back into its slot in the briefcase. He then retrieved another and began to fill it with the blue liquid, the one that would bring Sylar's powers back. Pretty soon, Sylar would be almost omnipotent again. Somehow that didn't make him feel any less disgusted with himself.
Sylar starred at the ground. There was not quite enough words in the world to describe how much he resented his final choice of giving in to this asshole and agreeing to sacrifice Claire. The company won and he had finally caved.
Before Sylar could look up again, Prescott had cut the rope between his wrists and the ceiling. He was too startled by the sudden freedom that all he could do was fall ungracefully and collapse onto the floor. He ended up face down on the cement floor, nearly breaking his nose with nothing to break his fall while his hands remained tied together. He groaned, unable to move for the time being as he gathered what little was left of his energy.
Prescott worked quickly, pulling down the waistband of Sylar's pants to expose fleshy muscle just soft enough to sink the tip of the needle into. Sylar couldn't see what the other man was doing but was certain that it was the right drug this time. They wouldn't let him renege on his deal. “You have one day, Sylar. Only one. You're to bring Claire to us by tomorrow night or we will hunt the both of you down. And we will kill you. Is this understood?”
He winced as the needle dove down, flooding his body with the substance that would bring his powers back. His forehead rested against the cool cement floor. Sylar felt the side of his face where he had fallen growing black and blue. His voice was muffled but the meaning clear. “I hope you realize that as soon as my powers return, your orders won't mean a thing to me. You won't be able to hurt us again. You won't even be able to find us.”
Prescott sliced the remaining ropes between Sylar's wrists, still unafraid and unfazed. He kicked Sylar in the side, rolling him over onto his back. “I'll be gone long before you wake up. You see, I've taken the liberty of lacing the Troflexim with a sleeping agent. This way I'll be able to escape while you're getting some much needed rest before you go out there on your first field assignment.” He placed his boot on Sylar's stomach, pressing down onto his lungs as he rested his arm on his knee. “And if you fail to follow this assignment, I will personally make sure you are caught and not given any more second chances.”
“How would you even find me?” Sylar coughed out, the weight of Prescott's heel on his chest making it hard to breath. The sleeping agent was working quickly, leaving him exhausted and ready to conk out.
Prescott laughed. “When you were unconscious last night, I placed a tracker in your neck.” He took out what looked like a PDA, bringing it right up to Sylar's face. He tapped the screen, pointing to the bleep on the map, the one that was flashing at the corner of Whitehall and South streets. “This is you. And wherever you are, I won't be far behind. Remember that if you try to outrun or hide from us.”
Prescott backed up, giving him one last kick for good measure. As Sylar began the quick descent into the world of unconsciousness, Prescott returned to the table and packed up his belongings. Snapping the briefcase shut, he walked out and shut off the lights, leaving Sylar laying on the floor of the warehouse, dizzy and sleepy.
The company had won a significant battle in the war that seemed to wage between them forever. After so many years of swearing that he would never play their games or work for them, the company finally forced Sylar into their submission. It was a necessary defeat, the last clear thoughts in his head told him. Either Sylar played their game on their terms this round or he stopped playing completely.
Death may have been a nobler choice but he didn't aspire to be noble.
He only wanted to survive.
And survival called for sacrifices.