Sins of the Father, Chapter 10
Title: Sins of the Father 10/?
Rating: R [Violence, religious overtones, some language.]
Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder
Characters: Sylar, Mohinder, Appearances from Peter Petrelli, and some old friends.
Spoilers: Not really anything special, season 1 of course but also the Nightmare Man stuff from S2 is there but altered as another character doing it.
Word Count: 3,615
Summary: Sylar's back in New York and he's out to visit an old friend who can help him find answers as to why he's powerless. The reunion is cut short as Sylar learns more about the mysterious Company and the truth about his father's life. There is a nightmare man and Sylar will be the only one who can stop him, no matter if they're related.
Author's Notes: Alright, I am nearing the home stretch of this one. Sylar in this chapter is trapped in his father's nightmare world. So he's going from nightmare to nightmare. The idea for the second nightmare hit me and I had a lot of fun writing it. The ideas of sin, punishment, and atonement figure heavily and why wouldn't Sylar have a nightmare about this type of situation? Also, it's only so damn long because there was a lot to accomplish in this chapter but I think that it was well-worth it. Enjoy!
Blinding white landscapes enveloped Sylar's every new blink. From the darkness of his inner eyelids to a light so intense he squinted with each new opening of his eyes. Snow raced around him, clinging to his body, his clothes in prickly patches that turned into sheets. Arms clutched and folded close to his chest, Sylar convulsed violently with the harsh shivering from his bones out. Nothing could make him warm, he could practically feel his heart slowing, stopping.
All sense of time lost as he forced himself to trudge on though he nearly fell through the packed snow on the ground with a few steps. His thoughts seemed to just stop but for one driving force that kept his aching legs moving, survive. So he went on though he had no idea where he was going or where he was. The snow that threatened to be crushed underfoot finally fulfilled that promise.
After one wary step, Sylar's boot sunk in all the way and one leg was nearly lost in the thick, crunchy surface of the ground. Only one leg stuck so he stumbled forward and tripped falling face first into the snow. Skin burned at the feeling of how cold it was... it never melted either. Just remained as solid as ever while Sylar just stopped moving. Thoughts of getting up again were in his mind but his body just wouldn't respond. So he lay there, his eyes closed...and let the snow fall on him. His mind was so dulled by the cold that he couldn't even bring up the only thing that truly made him happy, Mohinder.
Flakes clustered and fell down on the form of the man, Sylar was still as he felt his mind fading, his heart nearly stopping. A light crunch sounded from far away as it got closer, they were the unmistakable sounds of footsteps. Light but confident as they came closer to the unconscious man until they stopped. The figure bent down and placed a warm hand through Sylar's wet frost-tipped hair. Crouched, the figure reached down and pushed Sylar onto his back. That warm, soft hand moved over his face, cupping his cheek.
“Hon...Sweetie wake up...you can wake up now.”
A sweet smile lit up the girl's face as she shook Sylar a bit. He groaned and fluttered what were once frost-laced eyelashes. His hand slid out from under his body to feel a dry, cobblestone ground. Dark brows knit together as Sylar looked around. Everything was blurry at first and dark but he could catch the faintest occasional flicker crossing his eye-line. Quickly, he blinked in succession and realized that not only was the snow completely gone without a trace but that he was inside now.
Slowly, he twisted his body over and sat up to look at the person who spoke to him. Even though he was looking right at her, his mind couldn't possibly figure out who she was. Well, he knew who she was but she simply could not be. She was supposed to be dead. Sylar knew because he was the one who did it, who killed her. Charlie Andrews smiled sweetly at him as she cocked her head to the side.
“Oh good you're awake. You gave me quite a fright there for a bit. Come on, it's starting.”
She held her soft, small hand out to him as he stared at her. It took a moment to realize he was doing so behind a pair of glasses. His hand tried to move to feel the rims and know that they were in fact there. Suddenly, as he blinked once more he realized that he couldn't move his hands at all. Rough coils of rope bound them tightly enough to make his fingers tingly and numb. Charlie no longer stood before him. The room he was in was dark but with a few more blinks came into a clearer focus.
A few people gathered around on the floor itself and seemed to be below him. He lurched forward but it was then Sylar felt more tight coils of rope, expertly wound around his pale, stubbled neck. For a moment, he squirmed trying to use any of his powers but once more they had abandoned him. Sylar was alone but for the whispered utterances of the crowd filling into the room.
None of their faces could be made out as the room seemed to be lit only by torches on the walls. A figure moved through the flickering, dancing shadows. It climbed a small set of stairs and heavy footfalls resounded on the platform Sylar stood on. Shrouded in darkness, he walked past Sylar to stand at the ready by his side. Leather-gloved fingers wrapped around a gray, metal lever. Dark, impassive eyes were all that Sylar could make out of the figure due to the black hood that covered its head and neck.
He turned and stared at those eyes the best he could, they seemed very familiar to him. A few more struggles resulted in pained grunts, and chafed skin on both his wrists and his neck. At the feel of his own ripped-up flesh, Sylar sucked a sharp inhale through clenched teeth. None of this made any sense at all. It had to be a dream of some sort, except he had never before felt such visceral pain in his dreams. In fact, he very rarely dreamed at all. The quiet of the crowd seemed to be fading into a complete silence as another dark figure moved through the shadows.
A young man climbed the wooden steps and strode across the platform. Sylar caught sight of him through his peripheral vision but could not believe the sight of it himself until the man was fully in front of him. His hair was dark brown, nearly black, soft brown eyes that seemed so full of compassion, and a lip that seemed to be slightly lower than it should be when he frowned or scowled.
Peter Petrelli was adorned in the vestments of a priest. Long black robes, simple black shoes and a fabric collar around his neck to denote his status. Calmly, he turned and looked at Sylar, tilting his head as he scowled some at him. Sylar could only glare back as he struggled harder with his bonds.
“Petrelli, what is going on--”
Before his statement could be finished, Peter held up a hand, his black sleeve clung to his arm as he closed his fist. Sylar's lips slammed shut and pressed together at the motion. Peter looked at him, no, he pitied him with his eyes. Sylar struggled fiercely as he twisted around in a noose that only seemed tighter than it was before. Cutting off his airway briefly until he repositioned himself, standing up straight, eyes wide at Peter.
“Shh, quiet my son, the Damned will have their chance to speak.”
Peter could hear the intense pounding of Sylar's heart. It rattled his ribcage and caused tremors throughout his entire prone body. He nodded, and for a split second, Sylar thought the twitches of a smirk could be seen on his lips. Peter turned around, his back to Sylar as he looked upon the darkness. There was no podium in front of him as he addressed the crowd.
“All those who have gathered today are here to witness the execution of the man once known as Sylar who will heretofore be referred to as the Damned. Each of you have had your own lives affected or ended by the extents of this man's sins. His many trespasses against his fellow man have resulted in the crime of murder. The blood on his hands may no longer stain his flesh but forever may it stain his soul. In judgment he will stand before his every victim, he will see their faces once more. Each the result of his own sins of pride, of envy and of wrath. May he feel the stinging of his flesh, to share in the agony that he caused for each of you.”
Sylar narrowed his eyes as he looked out into the crowd. A completely shadowed gathering until he saw her. Once again there stood Charlie Andrews, the waitress from the Burnt Toast Cafe in Midland, Texas. As if that couldn't have been evidenced by the short-sleeved pink shirt and faded jeans she wore with a red apron affixed around her waist. A small smile on her lips as she stepped forward, her red hair stood out amongst the shadows.
Peter stepped to the edge of the platform and looked down at her.
“Tell me my child, how has the Damned trespassed against you?”
Her big eyes widened then glanced down before she spoke. A southern accent with just a hint of natural perk to it filled the air.
“Well Father, ... I was workin' at the Cafe minding my own business when I met...”
Her eyes glanced up and met Sylar's own. It was the first real time those eyes had ever locked to each other since Charlie was not the waitress assigned to Sylar's section when he stalked her from the shadows of her own workplace.
“When I met the...the Damned. I was in the back-room openin' a can of peaches when he...ended my life.”
Those eyes glanced to the side and a sadness came over her smile.
“He took from me what had become so meaningful and beautiful when a man named Hiro entered my life. I never even got to say goodbye, or see that cute little way he'd smile and his cheeks would scrunch up all funny just one more time.”
Peter pursed his lips and nodded kneeling down and setting a comforting hand on her shoulder. For a moment, Sylar watched this display of empathy play out, a few tears went down Charlie's face. She sniffled and nodded as she moved slowly back and disappeared once more into the shadows. Swiftly, Peter straightened his bent legs and turned to Sylar tilting his head some. He lifted his finger and sliced it through the air. Suddenly a deep, bloody gash appeared on Sylar's face. The flesh on his cheek stung from the air as he cried out from the suddenness of it. Peter stared at the cut on his skin and walked closer to him, his lips nearly by Sylar's ear.
“For every sin, you will wear a mark upon your flesh. It is but a small fraction of the pain you will feel as you burn eternally.”
This time, Sylar was sure of the dark smirk on Peter's lips before he turned back around.
“May the next one step forward and speak of the cruel acts that the Damned has perpetrated against them.”
Another shuffling of feet as a figure came into sight. This one was another girl, taller than Charlie and wearing a red and white cheerleader uniform. Blonde, straight hair that fell slightly past her shoulders with two little clips on each side of her part. Peter once again neared the edge of the platform he nodded at her to go on as he looked at her.
With a scoff and a roll of her eyes she glared daggers at the helpless man.
“Yeah, so like, I was touching up my face with some concealer during halftime of the big Homecoming game. That little bitch Claire had flipped out and gave me this.”
She pointed a painted fingernail to the impressive bruise that will forever color the skin of her eyelid.
“So yeah I'm putting some powder on it and there she is little miss freak girl getting in my face again. Completely unprovoked too! The lights flickered and I went out to head back to the game. She tried to stop me from going. God, it is not enough that she cheated and won Homecoming Queen, now she's trying to keep me from going back to the game! I get ready to make her admit as much but then he grabbed me, slammed me up against the freshman lockers and he somehow...he killed me. I mean I didn't even get to have my Prom and show-up Claire. I so would have too.”
A short sigh as Peter placed his hand on her shoulder as well and nodded again. He turned to look at Sylar, a look of utter disgust on his face as he cut his hand through the air once more. Sylar squirmed and tugged against the rope on his neck. A large, deep gash sliced through his shirt and into the flesh of his chest. A pained gasp as he quickened his breathing, the sting intense enough to make him want to cringe his body inward. However, when he tried, the back of his noose seemed to tighten so he forced his weakened legs to stay still.
“It is nothing compared to the pain you have given.”
Peter clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth then sneered. He turned around again and moved back to the edge of the platform. He requested for the next victim of the Damned to come forth and speak. This time, a young man came forward. Blonde short hair, stout appearance in a black t-shirt with white sleeves underneath. He looked rather nervous as his pale blue eyes shifted back and forth from Sylar to the waiting Peter. He cleared his throat and spoke with a quiet mumble, the occasional stammer.
“I um...I uh only knew the D-damned as Dr. Suresh. He uh...I thought he was the man who left a message on my answering machine. B-but it turned out that he was not. Soon after I showed him my...m-my ability he turned on me. Murdered me in my own place. I'd only just discovered this strange thing happening to me. Never even got to have it for very long or do anything with it.”
Never once did Zane Taylor's gaze meet that of his killer. He quietly stepped back into the crowd as another man came forward. He was rather similar to the previous man but he was older. A pair of glasses on his nose in a wrinkled shirt with a tie around his neck. He bravely looked the murderer in the eye as he spoke.
“He called me at home. Convinced me to come to an address he spoke of over the phone. Lured me in with the idea that someone else knew about this...thing that I could do and that he could help. He made me show him what I could do and then...it was the last thing I ever saw, that ceramic mug on a workbench. Before I met the...the Damned, I called my wife to let her know I'd be late. It was the last time we ever spoke. We had only been married for a few months and then this...this thing that I didn't want came into my life. All I wanted was to be normal, to have a normal life.”
Once again, Peter nodded and turned back to Sylar. A grim smile on his lips.
“All they wanted was to be normal and live full lives. To learn to live with and adjust to these gifts they had received. Neither one had a chance.”
He lifted his arm and slashed bloody slits into Sylar's jaw, above his hip, and on his face. All he could do was writhe uncontrollably with each new pain inflected upon him. Gasping to breathe when he stumbled and nearly choked himself as. for a moment, he hung by the rope. It was Peter himself who lifted Sylar back to his feet with a steady hand.
“Oh no. No, you are not yet destined to pay for what you have wrought. Though you have many victims, only one more will speak here on this day. Then the only judgment left to face will be that of your Maker.”
Peter hopped off the platform and landed smoothly as he moved toward the crowd. He soon disappeared into the shadows and the only thing that Sylar could hear was the tiny shuffling of footsteps. Little Molly Walker cautiously stepped forward. Her eyes still just as bright and curious as when Sylar first saw her sitting in the bed of the Company facility Slowly, she made her way towards the platform, Peter appeared behind her he stopped and watched as went to very edge of the platform and looked up. Sylar stared at her for quite some time, he had never before killed a child. In fact, he wasn't even sure what would have happened if he'd gotten away with her back when he broke into where she was being held. The first time he met that Parkman fellow.
“He's...he's the nightmare man. Every time I went to sleep, he was always there waiting f-for me. I always thought that he'd do what he did to my parents. I...I heard them, my mommy screamed so much and then...she just stopped. I never heard my dad at all. But...but when I went to live with Mohinder and with Matt, I thought that they could protect me. Then I got sick, and...I...I thought that Mohinder had finally come to see me. But it was him. I tried to wake up, and I couldn't. He...he made everything so c-cold.”
Even Sylar glanced away at this. He couldn't stand hearing her smal,l chirpy voice with that fearful quaver to it. If there truly was a Hell, he would be going there for her alone. Peter walked over to the girl, he bent down and kissed her forehead as she ran off back into the shadows. He moved back on to the platform. All he could do was shake his hand in disgust, dark bangs flipped slightly from his side to the front of his face. He moved and pushed them back once more. It all gave him a rather innocent, boyish look but for the hardness of his eyes.
“Now that we have heard the testimonials from the victims of the Damned, we are now ready to proceed.”
He nodded at the hooded figure at the lever and walked off the platform, not giving Sylar a second look. A deafening quiet enveloped the room as the hooded figure slowly moved its arm up to grasp the hood. Slowly, the guise was removed and Sylar was shocked to see caramel skin glisten in the low orange glow of the room. Dark curls stood in contrast to that skin as the hood was entirely removed and dropped onto the platform. Mohinder stared hard into the eyes of Sylar as he took a step forward. He spat at the man landing a gob of saliva right on Sylar's cheek as it rolled over a wound making the taller man hiss and wince from the sensation.
“You are vile, disgusting and an abhorrence to the human race. No, you are much less than human. You're a dog, and it's time that you were put down.”
That smoothly accented lilt could sound so warm and soothing. It could just as easily sting worse than a blade twisted into the body. It was as if Sylar could feel what little hope he had left slip away at the appearance of Suresh. To have the only man, the only person, he had ever felt anything remotely resembling affection for denounce him so soundly. All without that glimmer in his eye that typically betrayed his words and proved to Sylar that deep down, he understood and he cared.
“...Mohinder...Mohinder, please, you have to hel--”
His throat closed tightly again though Peter was nowhere to be seen. The words in his mind stopped short of passing his lips as he was forced quiet. Mohinder stepped back behind the lever, his gloved hand grasped it once more.
“My father had a hand in creating you, it's only fitting that I be the one who ends you. I'd say 'may God have mercy on your soul', but he won't and neither do I.”
At those words Sylar's breath panicked and he watched Mohinder lean forward to yank back hard on the lever. Sylar's footing was lost immediately as he cried out a desperate protest, able to once again speak. A slot in the platform was removed under him and Sylar's body jerked straight down, a hard snap to his neck as everything went black.
Slowly, a blurry image came into focus again. His hands were free and he could feel them rubbing along plastic. Sliding them back and forth against the slick material, feeling his palms drag and stop. A few more blinks and he realized that he was sitting in his mother's old chair, the one covered in a mustard yellow with a flower design protected by the plastic encasing. Sylar glanced around and felt around his neck. No abrasions, so he moved his hands up to his face. No cuts, nothing, just smooth skin... well slightly stubbled skin that needed a shave.
As he moved his arm back down to rest on the chair's arm, he felt something on his shoulder. A frail hand clasped onto the blue button-up he wore under a sweater vest. His eyes lingered to his side and slightly behind himself. Instantly, they were fixed by the shining, metal handle of a pair of sewing scissors. The glistening interrupted only by drops of rich, crimson blood dripping down and rolling off onto the plastic-covered back of the chair.