Homecoming
Feb. 11th, 2007 08:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
watchmakers_sonThey've framed the news clipping in a display case in the front lobby of Union Wells High School. It's accompanied by pom-poms, trophies, an autographed photo.
JACKIE YOU'RE OUR HERO, says the hand-painted banner behind it.
It's nearly silent here: there's the buzz of fluorescent lighting, the intermittent roar of the crowd gathered at the stadium, and little else. Idly, Sylar tightens one hand into a fist and listens.
Tick.
There.
Tick.
It's coming from the labyrinth of hallways to the right, leading to the women's locker room.
Tick.
He slips away as quietly as he came.
The chorus of voices in the locker room filters down to two as most of the cheerleaders head out to the field (tick), and he can't (tick, tick) separate them any further without somebody noticing. Pressed into the shadows, Sylar lifts a hand to the fuse box jutting from one wall, wrapping his fingers around the strings that only he can see -- though once, Brian Davis must have seen them, too -- and twists.
The wires crumple, sending the constantly humming electricity drooping into silence.
It's one less distraction to worry about.
"Public schools suck."
"Did you hear that?"
Tick.
"Hear what?"
"I thought I heard something."
"You're imagining it. Let's go!"
Tick.
Footsteps. A shaky breath. "Jackie, something's not right."
Tick.
"No duh! We're missing the coronation. Believe me, if you don't want to go out there and get that homecoming crown, I'm more than -- "
He grabs her by the throat and slams her against the lockers. It's not fast enough to cut off her shrieks, but that hardly matters; not once he points a finger to her forehead and skin and bone begin to separate.
She bleeds, choking for air, and doesn't stop bleeding.
And that alone should have been enough to give him pause, but it doesn't until Jackie's friend tries to tackle him, he throws her aside hard enough to make a bone snap, and Sylar hears, from the direction where she lands --
tickticktickticktickticktick
a change that makes his head whip around in shock.
(You're welcome to think what you want, he'd said. It's different than knowing.
And Raven had laughed and replied, Yes. You would, I think, do well to remember that.)
Swollen bruises smooth out as the other girl hauls herself upright, gasping. Cuts knit themselves together.
Sylar lets go of Jackie Wilcox and lets her body tumble to his feet as Claire flees the locker room, perfectly healed.
It ends with a brief scuffle between him and the bystander that tries to intervene as he chases Claire outside to the amphitheater, followed by a much longer fall for both men off the top of the structure.
Sylar's barely able to cushion himself before he hits the concrete, right leg wrenching so hard that stars burst in front of his eyes. It takes a second, coughing and winded, before he can pull himself to his feet. His leg nearly buckles when he tries to put his weight on it.
It's not just Jackie's blood on his hands and clothes anymore.
Panting, he lurches away toward the surrounding trees.
JACKIE YOU'RE OUR HERO, says the hand-painted banner behind it.
It's nearly silent here: there's the buzz of fluorescent lighting, the intermittent roar of the crowd gathered at the stadium, and little else. Idly, Sylar tightens one hand into a fist and listens.
Tick.
There.
Tick.
It's coming from the labyrinth of hallways to the right, leading to the women's locker room.
Tick.
He slips away as quietly as he came.
The chorus of voices in the locker room filters down to two as most of the cheerleaders head out to the field (tick), and he can't (tick, tick) separate them any further without somebody noticing. Pressed into the shadows, Sylar lifts a hand to the fuse box jutting from one wall, wrapping his fingers around the strings that only he can see -- though once, Brian Davis must have seen them, too -- and twists.
The wires crumple, sending the constantly humming electricity drooping into silence.
It's one less distraction to worry about.
"Public schools suck."
"Did you hear that?"
Tick.
"Hear what?"
"I thought I heard something."
"You're imagining it. Let's go!"
Tick.
Footsteps. A shaky breath. "Jackie, something's not right."
Tick.
"No duh! We're missing the coronation. Believe me, if you don't want to go out there and get that homecoming crown, I'm more than -- "
He grabs her by the throat and slams her against the lockers. It's not fast enough to cut off her shrieks, but that hardly matters; not once he points a finger to her forehead and skin and bone begin to separate.
She bleeds, choking for air, and doesn't stop bleeding.
And that alone should have been enough to give him pause, but it doesn't until Jackie's friend tries to tackle him, he throws her aside hard enough to make a bone snap, and Sylar hears, from the direction where she lands --
a change that makes his head whip around in shock.
(You're welcome to think what you want, he'd said. It's different than knowing.
And Raven had laughed and replied, Yes. You would, I think, do well to remember that.)
Swollen bruises smooth out as the other girl hauls herself upright, gasping. Cuts knit themselves together.
Sylar lets go of Jackie Wilcox and lets her body tumble to his feet as Claire flees the locker room, perfectly healed.
It ends with a brief scuffle between him and the bystander that tries to intervene as he chases Claire outside to the amphitheater, followed by a much longer fall for both men off the top of the structure.
Sylar's barely able to cushion himself before he hits the concrete, right leg wrenching so hard that stars burst in front of his eyes. It takes a second, coughing and winded, before he can pull himself to his feet. His leg nearly buckles when he tries to put his weight on it.
It's not just Jackie's blood on his hands and clothes anymore.
Panting, he lurches away toward the surrounding trees.
