Fic: A Far Distant Future - Volume Two
CHAPTER FOUR: The Liontamer - Part Two
Characters: Sylar/Claire
Summary: It's amazing what absence will do to the heart...
Rating: "R" for some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery
Spoilers: Up through season 3 I guess, but this got started before season 4.
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. And if I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know.
A/N: Whee the saga continues! This chapter introduces confused!Sylar. After all the brains he's jacked with, isn't it fitting someone jacks with his? I think he even says so much somewhere in here. And the elusive and rare paper!Claire makes an appearance. Hmmm... lonely prisoner... has hot paper girl... in his cell... possibly late at night... uhhhh...
Read Chapter Three | Read Chapter Five
Still More Trust…
Truth be told, he’d had worse meatloaf. The mac & cheese, however, was disdainfully dry, and the mashed potatoes were obviously instant. Fortunately, he’d never really had an aversion to instant. He was just happy to be hungry. The fact that’d he’d spent two decades eating as little as possible was a testament to his rebellion against his circumstances. He ached for his own kitchen and a trip to a farmer’s market. Hell, he’d even suffer through a syrupy sweet Riesling or a generic Zinfandel if it meant he could have a glass of wine. But then that crazy old hag had showed up with cookies - real, homemade cookies, the bitch - and ended his fast in the same way a stubbed toe could break a monk’s ancient vow of silence. He pushed some peas around while in thought, but instead of continuing to play with them, today he scooped some up and ate them.
You. Could. Just. Leave.
His words. Hers. They tumbled over each other in unison through his consciousness - the sinister voice of temptation muted by the angelic lull of honor and integrity. She trusted that he wouldn’t leave, and he knew that she was right - right about everything. He did come here for a clean slate, he did come here to fix what was broken - if it could be fixed. Maggie seemed to think it could. He wasn’t similarly convinced, but she sure seemed to want him to trust her.
He could feel the heat of someone’s stare emanating from his right. He looked up at the approach of three men. They were all clearly of Hispanic descent and corded with sinewy muscle - if Sylar were not who he was, he’d have every reason to be nervous. The leader - heavily tattooed with a shaved head - spoke.
“You up from the loony bin, man - in the basement?” The trio came to a stop and stood across the table. “Know what kinda guys they keep down there? Rapists. Child molesters. M’thinkin’ you must be one of ‘em, right?” He sat down at the table while his companions flanked behind him. Sylar suspected they were in on drug trafficking charges, or maybe petty larceny. Maybe one of them shot someone, who knows. He was certain, however, that none of them really knew anything about super-powered killers with mental illness, or else they’d be across the room ignoring him like everyone else. “The others, they talk about you. They say, ‘leave him alone, he dangerous.’ Look around you - everyone here is dangerous. Don’t see anything special about you.”
Sylar laid down his fork and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. With great patience, he pushed his tray away and clasped his hands in front of him. Unfortunately for them, these gentlemen now had his full attention.
“Lemme tell you about my little cousin,” the man continued. “She never went anywhere without pigtails - she was six years old. Loved nothing in the world more than a little blue bear. She disappeared and was found two weeks later, naked and raped. And dead. Guys like us?” He motioned to take in everyone around them. “We don’t do shit like that, man. And we don’t like guys who do shit like that, you hear me?”
In all honesty, Sylar’d been cooped up in a cage long enough he was probably a tad too eager to ‘stretch his legs’. Or maybe he’d let a little surging testosterone get to his head, he didn’t know. But he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“So, tell me, did they ever catch the guy who enjoyed your ‘little cousin’?”
Sylar barely had time to stand and get away before the table tipped over. The man already had one foot perched on its edge using it to propel himself through the air, his face contorted in a vicious battle cry, but his fingers never got the chance to make their purchase on the tender flesh of Sylar’s throat. All three men were launched in different directions to crash into walls and tables and chairs and people. One of the men didn’t move after he landed. The other had a visibly broken arm. The leader was dazed, blood pouring from a fracture in his skull. Every eye in the great expanse of the cafeteria hall turned to face him. Sparks inadvertently leaped from his fingertips to chase each other across the floor until they disappeared. For a split second the room echoed with an unnatural silence before a pack of uniformed officers appeared from every which way to encircle him, firearms drawn. Bob was among them, face blank, duty being performed.
“On the ground, Sy” he directed, using the nickname he knew he abhorred. “Face down, hands behind your back.”
He hesitated.
“Buddy,” Bob continued, “you know this is just a formality. We all do. You want this shit to keep happening to you? Then keep drawing attention to yourself and toss the rest of us like rag dolls. Or, you can just let me slip these harmless little cuffs on you and remove you from this situation. Let everyone calm down.”
He took another glance around at everyone waiting to see what would happen. Suddenly he felt like a politician, being asked to put on a show for the good of the population. He nodded and lowered his body to the ground like he was asked, but not before he noticed one man sitting several tables away. He sat hunched over his tray with his shoulders drawn up to his ears, painstakingly trying to make himself invisible. He ate as quickly as he could, while no one was paying any attention to him. Sylar could see there was something plainly wrong with the man - something wrong with his brain - could feel it like a clock half a minute too slow. He was from the loony bin too - probably guilty of some unspeakable horror. As Sylar pressed his cheek into the cool tile and crossed his wrists at the small of his back, he studied the man, allowing his natural ability to feed him information. His mind was knotted and tangled like a ball of yarn a kitten had made into a toy, or a wad of Christmas lights freshly retrieved from its year-long hiatus in the attic. It would take forever to work out that mess - probably longer than his lifespan would allow. He could receive treatment for the rest of his life and still die a very sick man. He’d never see freedom again.
But what if he had forever? Would there be hope for him?
Bob clamped the metal around his wrists then pulled back on his shoulder to get him to his feet.
“It’s funny,” Bob said in his ear as he guided him out of the hall and down the corridor toward the elevator. “Usually for actions like these we take away recreation time spent outside. But you… couldn’t get you out there if I hog-tied you. Human beings need sunshine, you know…”
Sylar didn’t answer, he had too much racing through his mind. The only thing he said, as they’d stepped off the elevator, was, “I think I’d like the notebook today, Bob.”
~*~*~
This time Maggie wore nothing unusual, but one of her cheeks was bulging with the roundness of a lollipop, the white stick protruding from between her lips. She also carried a paper grocery bag, contents - as usual - unknown. Oddly enough, she made no protest, handing Bob the bag before he had the chance to ask for it.
“Everything I brought with me will be leaving with me today. There’s nothing harmless in that bag, Officer Harriman.”
It was Bob’s job to inspect the bag, despite her assurances. Inside he found a tablet of construction paper and… several pots of fingerpaint - all different colors. And another lollipop, still in the wrapper - cherry, the universal favorite flavor.
“Maggie… is this gonna make a mess I’m gonna have to clean up?”
“We’re not children, Bob, we’re responsible adults - we’re not going to be flinging anything like wild baboons…”
Bob smiled at the picture that put in his mind as he led her to Sylar’s doorstep.
“This is for you,” she told Sylar once Bob had left them to their work. She retrieved the lollipop from the bag and presented it to him like a doctor who’d just delivered a vaccination to a child who didn’t cry. Sylar would’ve felt mildly insulted… if it hadn’t been cherry mmmm…
“Whathit for?” he asked, trying not to drool red, artificial flavoring as he spoke with his mouth full.
“I heard a wild rumor that you not only made use of your notebook but also sat down and ate a full meal, and on the same day. I’m very proud of you.”
He stopped sucking and waited for her to drop the other shoe - the part about how he also got in a scuffle with three Mexicans - but she didn’t mention it at all. He was quite aware that if she’d heard such minor details about that day, then she knew all about the rest of it but chose not to mention it. She was reinforcing positive behavior like she was training a dog. Was that all he was? Impounded because he was too aggressive for anyone to love so she was going to paper-train the evil out of him? Kill it with kindness? He felt a hot, red flush of anger creep into his cheeks. He suddenly wanted to stab her with the white stick drooping from his lips - right through the eye… wanted to bash her head against the ceiling and fry her with one good shock and…
“Mr. Sylar, are you alright?”
He was fuming. His shoulders were drawn tight, his fists were clenched, and his breath was coming in short heaves. His eyes were coal black and radiating dark menace. The situation was quickly and unexpectedly escalating out of control. The candy tasted like ash. He was ashamed, embarrassed, and felt like a complete idiot. Only Gabriel could’ve been so stupid - so gullible. She’d placated him with words like ‘I’m so proud of you’, something he’d never heard from anyone before - something any moron with eyeballs could guess he’d want to hear - and she’d landed him hook, line, and sinker. She’d suckered him into rolling over and giving in, letting her mold him into whatever she wanted. Just. Like. That. He hated being manipulated.
Bravely, she faced him and stood toe to toe, interrupting his meltdown. She placed a hand on either side of his head yet didn’t touch him - she captured him with her soft grey eyes.
“What’s happening here? What have I said that’s made you so upset? Why are you angry?”
A distant voice threw Claire’s words back to him from across what felt like a chasm of time - ‘Oh, you are definitely angry…’ He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of an answer. He hated her eyes on him, goading him into giving up his secrets. His success was her success - so self-serving… He wanted to rip open the bars and toss her out on her ass, but he knew she’d just be back the following week. He could rip off her arms and legs and she’d still come back, like a cockroach… she was never going to…
She was never going to leave him. She was never going to give up.
The room distorted for a split second, becoming a bit greyer, or more two-dimensional - it was hard to describe.
“Sylar?”
He grew suddenly very dizzy and his head was pounding. He reached out an arm behind him and felt for the cot as he sank into it. He kept his eyes closed until the sound of his own breathing stopped rushing through his ears. When he resurfaced into full consciousness, he felt… different.
A soft pressure on the mattress beside him drew his attention. Maggie had sat down and was studying him carefully. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings. He turned to look at her and she saw something in him… her eyes widened slightly and she drew in a surprised breath.
“…Gabriel?”
He nodded at the name - it did feel right.
“Hello… are you okay?” she asked.
He nodded again, feeling somewhat numb and a little tingly.
“What happened? To Sylar? Did he say anything to you?”
“I don’t know, he… he just shut down. It’s not like him… I’ve, uh… I’ve lived my life like I’m watching everything over his shoulder… this is strange…”
“I know it is, I know. Everything’s fine - it’s just the two of us. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes. You’re here to help.”
“I am, yes. But somehow I’ve made Sylar angry.”
“Yes, and sad. He doesn’t know how to handle you.”
“What is it that he doesn’t he know how to handle?”
“Faith. He doesn’t believe the things you say and he doesn’t think you care about him. He thinks you’re trying to get rid of him - for me. He’s scared and he’s lonely and he’s mad because he thinks you see him as some bad habit that’s happening to me.”
“Hmmm…” She clasped her hands in front of her and nodded gravely. “It appears we have a little more work to do with trust, then.” She picked up the bag as she rose to move to the bars. “Officer Harriman,” she called, “will you hold this bag til next week? We won’t be needing it this session after all.”
“You said -”
“I’m quite aware of what I said, thank you. And please bring me the notebook and pencils.” After Bob had collected the bag and shuffled off, muttering something about not being a personal supply closet, she returned to sit in the chair across from him.
“What we need to do is -”
“Maggie, he wanted to kill you. Do you realize that? Really? The only reason he didn’t is because we promised each other a ‘clean slate’ twenty years ago.”
“So you’ve developed a contract with each other! That’s wonderful! That’s a foundation!”
“Yeah, I know, but there’s a problem. A couple problems, actually.”
“Of course there are. We wouldn’t be here without them.”
“I know, but they’re kinda big. I mean, first of all, he’s so convinced he can make himself into this incredibly powerful thing that he’s actually…” he laid his forehead in his hand, “shit, he would be so pissed to hear me say this so you can’t tell him… but, he’s actually become really fragile, you know? And second of all, he’s got a… a complication.”
“A complication?” Her lips quirked into a smile that bubbled with private laughter. She was fortunate that Gabriel wasn’t the kind to take offense.
“He calls it a ‘hunger’, but honestly it’s so much more than that - it completely consumes him, drives him. He even called it a thirst once, which might be more accurate. I think it’s inherited from my father - it’s a part of my ability. It’s… it’s easy to become fixated on an enigma to the point that everything else just disappears - even the difference between right and wrong.” He met her eyes with a haunted, hollow look. “It’s like, nothing else matters, I just have to know how this thing works… even if that thing is a living, breathing person…” He dropped his gaze to his hands in his lap. “You have to know it’s not a simple blood lust, Maggie. It’s something innate, it’s worse than an addiction - it’s like a primal instinct. I don’t know how you’re going to fix that, and he doesn’t either. He’s afraid we’re going to fail. And I am too.”
“Well…” she began, sighing under the weight of such a task, leaning back in her chair to stretch her legs, “while I don’t doubt that this ‘hunger’ is in fact derived from your ability, I can tell you it is very commonplace for individuals suffering from your disorder to experience behaviors that can be termed destructive, either to themselves or others. My first attempt would be to treat it very much the same way. He wants to try, doesn’t he? Wants a clean slate? A chance to start over?”
“Yes, but, the thing is… see, we actually went and talked to my father once. Did you know that? We did. Until that day, he just wanted to be what he was. He’s always just believed that he is what he’s supposed to be - what I should be.”
“And you don’t agree?”
“I don’t really know. I don’t usually get to do a lot of the thinking…” He paused for a moment, in thought. “He is what I made him, isn’t he?”
“He is, yes, but despite what he feels that in no way negates his existence. I would no more wish to see him gone than I would you.” She patted the notebook that currently resided in her lap, unopened as promised. “Confronting your father changed his perception, did it?”
“He’s afraid he’s gonna turn out like him.”
“That’s a valid fear.” She pushed the notebook into his hands. “I promised both of you I wouldn’t make you use this, but I cannot suggest more strongly that you do. I think it would be an enormous help to tell him that no one’s trying to get rid of him, that he’s important to us, and that he’s safe. He needs to hear these things. He needs to hear what’s on your mind. He needs to remember you both have voices. I want you both to be able to work together.” She set the package of pencils on the cot beside him. “You may do as you wish. I’ll have Bob check on you in an hour. As for today, I think we’re done here - I’d like to give Sylar some time to calm down and process what’s happened, I don’t want to push him too hard. We’ll pick up here next time, m’kay?”
She stood and straightened her habit before giving him a soft, gentle pat on his shoulder, telling him it was nice to finally meet him. After Bob had released her from his cell and disappeared with her down the corridor, he opened the notebook. Inside was written a simple question.
“Is there hope for me?”
It deserved a simple, honest answer.
“There is. Don’t give up.”
~*~*~
Grounding
She was back again, like clockwork. And Sylar knew a thing or two about clockwork. He could’ve timed a watch by her faithfulness and timeliness. It only made him feel worse. He sat on his cot leaning on his elbows, staring holes into the floor when Bob stole his attention. He was making a spectacular scene of trying to open the cell door while not tipping over a mug full of steaming hot liquid. Out of reflex he quirked an eyebrow at the wholly impressive feat of athleticism. Telekinetically he could’ve helped the man, but watching was more fun.
“Thank you, Bob. Now, don’t forget to blow on that, it’s hot.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Maggie entered the cell like she was going on lunch break. She carried the brown grocery sack from last time in addition to a large thermos and two mugs. Not giving him an opportunity to balk at her approach, she nimbly stuffed a mug into his hands.
“Now hold it still, this stuff is still quite hot,” she directed.
He obeyed as a scalding stream of apple cider splashed inside the ceramic cylinder.
“You seem to think the way to my heart is through my -”
“I’m not here to discuss what happened last time, Mr. Sylar. I can plainly see that you’re still uncomfortable and I would prefer you to feel differently. It is your reticence that I wish to address in this session.”
“Maggie… I -”
“Does your head still hurt?”
“… uh, yeah?”
“I wish to show you a technique that will alleviate the pain. Put your cup between your feet a moment.” He did as she asked. “Now I want you to bend all the way over, put your chest on your knees. With your head hanging, I want you to rest your hands behind it, and gently let their weight tug against your neck. Can you feel the tightness in your neck and shoulders, down your spine?”
“Yes?”
“That’s tension.”
And that was the point she was trying to make. He was still tense.
“It’s responsible for the pain. It can be dealt with just like anything else.”
He could’ve read a lot more into that. Perhaps that was her intention. Who was he kidding, of course it was her intention.
“The steam will open your head up.” She was referring to the cider. He picked up the mug and held it under his nose, allowing his face to become coated with warm condensation. He did have to admit the headache had slightly abated.
“I will say this, then I will leave it,” she began, her tone grave. “I am not a novice to my profession. I have seen a lot of illness, I have witnessed multitudes of trauma. I have navigated broken dreams, broken hearts, and broken lives. I have come to expect a lot more than I think you’re aware, Mr. Sylar. Regardless of how you perceive yourself, you are a human being, not a disembodied entity, and human beings feel things. I expect your anger, I expect your fear, I expect sadness and distrust and confusion and grief and shame and hostility. I have expected these things from the very beginning and I will continue to expect them long after you’ve convinced yourself to let them go.”
She took a seat in the chair before him and poured herself a mug, pursing her lips and nearly whistling a cooling breeze over the rim.
“Now, at this point all I can offer you are words. I have always expected you to reject them, for at face value, it’s true, words are meaningless. However, only time will lend them their worth, and it is my assumption that time is something of which you have a healthy abundance. Fortunately for us both, I am capable of matching your time with patience, for they are both limitless. When I tell you that I’m proud of you, it is not my intention to patronize you or treat you like a doll or a pet. It is my intention, however, to entreat to you to take some pride in yourself and your own accomplishment. Given time and patience, it is my sincerest wish that you will come to believe what I’m telling you.”
She slurped a tentative sip, testing to see if the surface was cool enough to drink. He did the same. He looked up when he felt her gaze on him. She held his eyes for a long stretch before she leaned toward him, staring directly into him. She laid him bare before her, seeing in him all the things he couldn’t hide: the killer, the victim, the man, and the boy. His power and his weakness. The strength of his convictions - the fury of his awesome wrath - and the façade they provided, shielding a throbbing, aching fragile hurt. Before he could shyly duck away from her scrutiny, she spoke again.
“Everything is going to be okay.”
Not trusting his voice to speak, all he could do was nod and take another drink. Her demeanor shifted instantly and she smiled hugely as she dived into the grocery bag.
“Now, the other goal of this session is to address your proclivity towards destructive behavior.”
“I was kinda wondering when that was gonna come up…”
“Not only do I wish to integrate your two aggregate selves, but I’d also like to see you succeed in your quest for a clean slate. And, of course, your ability to ever be granted amnesty from the judicial system by which you are incarcerated is wholly dependent on your success in this endeavor. Meaning… we have to get you to stop killing people.”
“Naturally…” he began, glancing at the plastic multicolored pots emerging from within the wrinkled bag, “this process would involve… fingerpaint…”
“Do you have a better solution, Mr. Sylar?”
“… you could beat me…” he said, taking the piece of construction paper that was offered him.
“I took an oath I will not contradict. I suspect you can relate,” she glanced at him meaningfully from the corner of her eye while she arranged the pots of paint beside him. “And that includes restraining from physical violence.”
“An oath as a doctor?”
She made a grand gesture to her apparel.
“I should think it would be more obvious than that…”
“Right. Maggie, what on earth am I painting?”
“Before we get started, I need to tell you there is the potential that this could become unpleasant, but should that be the case I will halt the activity and not allow it to progress.”
“I can handle it, what am I doing?”
“We are creating an escape route,” she said as she smacked the hand that was already opening the red. “Pay attention. We are establishing what’s known as a safety or a grounding mechanism.”
“Maggie, my fingers are still dry -”
“I want you to think of your earliest pleasant childhood memory. Ignore any unpleasant memories for now - we’ll deal with those later - think only of a time when you were young and happy.”
He chewed his lip while he rubbed the back of his neck, pensive. His hand came around to brush fingers through his hair - an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact as it spilled back across his face in dark strands. He drew in on himself a bit and brought the hand down further to rub at his brows. The headache had come back.
“I suspected this might not be easy.”
“I’m alright.”
“If you don’t say it, I’m going to ask it.”
Both arms crossed over his chest defiantly but the sigh that escaped him betrayed a private turmoil.
“You can’t -”
“I don’t have any,” he admitted begrudgingly. “Maggie, my childhood is a complete blank except for -”
“Don’t!” she warned. “Don’t even mention them, those memories. You don’t have memories of your childhood because Gabriel has them.”
“Him again…”
“Yes, him again - this is about both of you. He needed you to conquer his fears, and now you need him too, to conquer this hunger. Why don’t you ask him to show you some memories?”
“But…ughh, this is stupid. I don’t even -”
“It’s not stupid. Close your eyes, sit back, relax, take some deep breaths, and ask him.”
Knowing that no matter how long he kept his eyes closed she wasn’t going to give up and go away, or magically disappear through any other means, he gave it a reluctant attempt. It wasn’t entirely that he didn’t want to talk to Gabriel… he was just really damned certain he wasn’t going to like what he saw. It was a reminder that he was nothing more than a figment of an interrupted imagination - a coping mechanism. He wasn’t real.
The dark became a bit more encompassing, the ambient light behind his eyelids drifting away like a receding fog. The floor lost contact with his feet and for a moment he was floating. He would’ve been alarmed if he wasn’t Sylar, but few things alarmed Sylar because that would be just silly. And he certainly didn’t jump at all when he felt what he would describe as a puff of breath on the back of his neck, just over his right shoulder.
‘Here, see this…’
His blank, black surroundings exploded with light, like walking through a doorway into a blindingly bright sunshiny day. All around him, colors swirled and began to take form. Something was bumping against his cheek. When he reached to push it away, he was surprised by its silky feel. The dreamlike sky above him was brilliantly blue with feathery white clouds weaving high through the atmosphere. The day was comfortably mild, a cacophony of birdsong rang all around him - definitely springtime. He held, pinched between his fingertips, the object that had been tickling his face - it was a large, red, sweet-smelling blossom. He was surrounded by them, and they towered over him. They were either really tall or he was… little. Yes, he was little. At the same time he made the realization he could hear a soft humming coming from his left.
All he could see of her sticking out of the flowerbed was her lower half, folded to rest on her knees, wearing jeans, a red shirt, and an apron. A graceful, long-fingered hand emerged from the kaleidoscopic blooming expanse to catch hold of a small bundle of marigolds ready to be put into the ground, her tune floating on the breeze… what was it? It was old… before her time even - ‘Earth Angel’ maybe. Fitting. After a few firm, deliberately well-placed motions he saw the same hand, this time dripping with dark, crumbly soil, snaking toward him out of his periphery between the stalks of the tall, red flowers. Her muddy fingertips brushed against his abdomen and he heard her croon something…
“Who’s my angel, hmm? Who’s mommy’s angel?”
His entire body jerked and spasmed with mirthful laughter as his mother’s hand tickled his belly relentlessly. He was hopeful he was young enough to be wearing a diaper because he was probably going to need one. And then it hit him - he couldn’t remember a single time in his entire life when he felt this warm, safe, and completely filled with unabashed joy.
He blinked his eyes open when he felt himself being shaken. He was suddenly back in the basement of a federal prison and a crazy nun was pushing a handkerchief into his face - he felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach.
“I had hoped this wouldn’t be an unpleasant experience but I appear to have been mistaken. You have my apologies.”
He heard a large wet drip, and he looked down just as the tear that left his chin splashed against the paper in his lap, diluting and swirling the paint with which it came into contact. He almost brought his fingers up to touch the wetness on his face when he discovered them covered in various colors and still quite gooey. He hadn’t been aware that he’d painted anything, yet staring up at him from the tops of his thighs was a big red flower and a circle enshrouded by what looked like long, black hair. The circle was obviously intended to be a face, yet it lacked any features - it was completely blank. Sylar swallowed against the knot in his throat. He rejected the handkerchief, but used the backs of his hands to wipe his face.
“That’s not the only one,” Maggie told him, grabbing his reluctant fingers and using the white cloth to remove the drying paint. “You also did these.”
She paused to hand him two more pieces of paper. The first was covered with a complex system of circles comprised in various sizes and colors. They all exhibited different attributes that made it seem as if they were working together for a common purpose. It only took a few moments for him to decide he was looking at the inside of a beloved timepiece. It made him smile, but he set it aside and picked up the second painting. It bore a face - a much more defined face - with pink lips and big green eyes… and tons of lemon yellow hair… It was too late, Maggie’d already seen him hold onto it a bit too long.
“I understand who the faceless, black-haired woman is supposed to be, but this blonde one, I confess, is a mystery…” she trailed off in an attempt to suggest he should supply an explanation.
It had been over two decades since the last time he’d seen her and even this fragmented, incomplete version of her was enough to make him shudder involuntarily. This was supposed to be a pleasant memory? His last memory of her was a mushy pulp of blood and tissue sprayed over carpet and walls, the largest chunks of her regenerating on a cookie sheet on the kitchen table… and before that there were the times she’d practiced making similar art out of his face. And what had she said? ‘No one loves you, no one ever will.’ Yeah, that’s really fucking pleasant…
“She’s…” the word slipped out of his mouth accidentally, and now he was committed. He sighed in resignation. “I, uh… I hunted her.” He set her painting aside and leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out before him, placing his hands behind his head. “I don’t know what else to say, I mean, I wasn’t very nice to her? Does that even cover it? She couldn’t be hurt, she couldn’t get sick, she was never going to die and I wanted that. Couldn’t get it out of my head, like a song that gets stuck, you know? She was so young and sweet and I drove her like a herd of cattle until I got what I wanted. I don’t really know why she ran from me so hard, I mean, we both knew she was going to live through it… what was the big deal? But no. That would be too easy. No, instead I ended up killing both of her real parents - who, honestly, she really didn't even know, right? And as it turns out, her real dad was this really huge hypocritical asshole hell-bent on locking up people like us just because we're different - so, I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't a mercy killing. Anyway, long story short, boy chases girl, girl gets pissed off and swears revenge on boy, girl chases boy, boy lets girl punish him, things between girl and boy get... complicated. Girl and boy promise each other a clean slate, boy goes to prison and meets a crazy lady who's trying to turn his brain inside out which is way more than mildly ironic and would thrill girl to death if she were here. And could die. Which she can’t. So she’d just be thrilled almost to death."
Maggie quietly absorbed what he'd said while sizing him up with an amused, knowing stare that made him moderately uncomfortable. She gave a small laugh and clasped her hands in her lap.
"You're in lo-"
“Don’t you dare say it.” All of the muscles in her face seized with an unseen force the instant he reflexively shot an arm toward her, clamping her mouth shut. “Don’t even dare. Seriously.”
“I won’t,” she responded once released, “but I will say this - she obviously bears some significance to you, whether you want to admit how much or not.”
“Sure. Fine. Whatever. What am I doing with these dumb paintings?” He was becoming irritated.
“They are grounding mechanisms -”
“Right so what’s a -”
“If you will listen, I will explain. Have you ever heard of the art of divination, Mr. Sylar?”
“Isn’t that a little superstitious for the Catholic -”
“When it means ‘inspired by God’? Answer the question, please.”
“Right. Divination. The art of foreseeing the future or something. I’ve known people with this ability, it’s -”
“More importantly, it’s the art of taking an object and making it one’s sole focus, and using that focus to draw interpretations. What I’m going to ask you to do is very similar. In subsequent sessions we are going to start dealing with this issue of ‘hunger’ and we’re also going to start investigating memories that I suspect are to blame for your fractured psyche. As I’ve said before I’m going to attempt hypnotherapy as I’ve had great success with this medium in the past. There will be times, however, when you will experience… some increased difficulty with the subject matter. During these times, these grounding mechanisms - these more pleasant memories or icons in your life - are to be used as your focus, or as a common ground between yourself and Gabriel. A safe place, or an escape route. A place for congregation and self-reflection - a way to pull away from the situation, to regroup and calm down. Am I making sense?”
“Yeah.”
“During our next session I think you will understand better, as I’d like to try getting our feet wet and make our first venture into hypnosis. Is this something that discomforts you?”
“I don’t really -”
“I need you to know, before we do Mr. Sylar, that there is the possibility I could learn something very private and intimate about you. It would be unwise to take this step if I don’t have your trust. You must also know that there is nothing that you could say or do, regardless of your past prior to this point, that will shock me, disappoint me, or deter me. I took an oath to my cloth long ago to banish pre-conceived notions, and I came to your case with no -”
“Maggie.” He took a breath before sitting up and leaning forward, dropping his hands between his knees. He gazed up at her from beneath his brow. “I’ll be fine. It’s okay. You’ve got more to worry about than I do, really.”
“How so?”
“I’d be more concerned with what I might do to you.”
“Mr. Sylar,” she laughed as she stood, ready to take her leave of him for the day. She gathered all of her things then motioned to Bob through the bars. “I think we’ve already discussed this. Unlike you, I don’t have any trouble putting my faith in you, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Now then, as always, I still suggest you use your notebook and communicate with Gabriel. Let him communicate with you. See what else he’d like to show you, and think of what you can give to him, other than fancy abilities and an increase to his self-esteem.”
Sylar didn’t really feel like talking to the mama’s boy loser anymore that night. He’d had enough sentimentality in the past hour to last a whole week, but that didn’t manage to stop his eyes from gravitating toward the paintings still lying face-up on the cot. He recognized that they bore a singularly important function, he didn’t think Maggie would go to all this trouble just to lie to him, so why was he suddenly feeling so defensive? Fancy abilities and an increase to his self-esteem? Was she kidding? What the hell! He was everything! He was… no. No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t the same as Gabriel, they were completely different. They weren’t even close to similar! He was everything Gabriel wasn’t! Wasn’t he? What did that even mean? Why was this even a question?
Why was he so bothered? He flipped the paintings over and ached for anything else to do, any kind of distraction. Things of that nature were a little tough to come by in a jail cell.
He plopped heavily into the chair and pressed his palms against his forehead. His headache had returned. He leaned forward in the same manner Maggie’d had him try before, pulling against tight, tense muscles, willing them to relax.
This was Gabriel’s body. This was Gabriel’s life. Gabriel had all the memories. Gabriel held all the cards. He and Maggie would find out all about Gabriel, but who was he? ‘Fancy abilities and an increase to his self-esteem.’ He felt like so much more than that - he wasn’t really that insignificant, was he? What the fuck! That was what Gabriel needed him for in the first fucking place! An instrument, a tool, to make him better - to make him special, to make him wanted. How did this fucking happen? He was more - he was real!
He stood and levitated the chair, ready to smash it into the bars, when he was caught off guard by a body standing on the other side. It was Bob. He held the notebook and a pencil. He looked… a bit nervous. And pale. Of course, who wouldn’t be when confronted with a murderous and mentally imbalanced telekinetic serial killer who was levitating a large wooden object with the very obvious intention of flinging it near the speed of sound in the general direction of his head? Bob swallowed before he spoke.
“Maggie said you might want this.” He slid the items through the bars. “I’ll be back to check on you in an hour.”
The chair hit the ground with an echoing clang that Bob ignored. Sylar wanted to see that damned notebook burn, didn’t want to give it or anyone else any more pieces of himself. But he had a question. He had a question he wasn’t going to voice and like a hunger for a new ability it wasn’t going to go away. It was like a piece of something sharp jammed between his teeth, too stiff to dig out. It was going to need to be addressed. The notebook and pencil leaped from the floor to land in his outstretched hand, pages fluttering. He wasn’t sure he was ever gonna give that jackass Gabriel the chance to see it, but he was going to ask anyway, just in case. He backed himself up against the far wall and slid down it to sit on the floor, knees drawn up. His anger dissolved at the sight of his own writing.
‘Don’t give up. You’re real to me and I need you more than you know.’
But he wanted to know. He wrote with such force he nearly broke the lead tip.
‘Who am I?’