Godsend/The Fix
Mar. 5th, 2007 11:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
watchmakers_sonIt has been...
Sylar doesn't know how long it's been.
He's aware of things in sluggish flashes lately. Lights going on. Lights going off. Something...not aching, but cold and solid pressed against the back of his skull. Voices. A concrete table underneath him.
There's a cockroach inching along close by. He blinks: time stutters, and it's gone.
He's malfunctioning. Has been, ever since he woke from the hypodermics full of sedative that Bennet fired into him. Yet even his awareness of that is dulled to a level barely above consciousness, far removed from any capacity to acknowledge -- let alone care about -- the implications of it.
If we keep up at this rate, he'll be dead by tomorrow, someone mutters outside of his cell. Sylar doesn't hear him.
The seizures start a few hours (days, seconds, months) later.
It's gotten colder. There are lights in his eyes and straps drawn tight across his chest. A heart monitor traces out a flickery, stammered rhythm. Sylar gags and shivers involuntarily every time he breathes.
If he crashes, you bring him back. Again. And again.
Involuntarily, because once he fell back into unconsciousness, there hasn't been much else left.
When he dies, it'll be on my terms, not on his.
The same monitor flatlines at 4:32 PM.
What he hears most clearly at first is the noise of blood rushing in his ears. (That isn't possible, but what else could it be?)
Sylar sits on the edge of the cell's table, legs folded Indian-style beneath him, facing the barrier. The glass reflects nothing back but a smooth blank greyness. Puzzled, he stirs, turning to look over his shoulder, and --
Oh.
The detached frown deepens. Silently, he uncrosses his legs to slide off of the table, circle to the other side, stare down at the prone body. There's no movement. It's a collection of broken parts and little else. When Sylar rests a hand on its forehead, his index finger trails across the brow in a brief, instinctual gesture.
But when he leans in, eyes unblinking to take in every possible sound, he also hears something faint beneath the mass of silence.
Tick. Not quite so broken as it seemed at first.
Sylar smiles.
The heart monitor flatlines, but the one monitoring the man's brain activity doesn't, and the doctor -- running on assumptions and a need to take care of the body as soon as possible -- forgets to check before he unhooks the machines and makes the call to Bennet's cell phone.
He's only unfastened two restraints before Sylar opens his eyes.
Sylar doesn't know how long it's been.
He's aware of things in sluggish flashes lately. Lights going on. Lights going off. Something...not aching, but cold and solid pressed against the back of his skull. Voices. A concrete table underneath him.
There's a cockroach inching along close by. He blinks: time stutters, and it's gone.
He's malfunctioning. Has been, ever since he woke from the hypodermics full of sedative that Bennet fired into him. Yet even his awareness of that is dulled to a level barely above consciousness, far removed from any capacity to acknowledge -- let alone care about -- the implications of it.
If we keep up at this rate, he'll be dead by tomorrow, someone mutters outside of his cell. Sylar doesn't hear him.
The seizures start a few hours (days, seconds, months) later.
It's gotten colder. There are lights in his eyes and straps drawn tight across his chest. A heart monitor traces out a flickery, stammered rhythm. Sylar gags and shivers involuntarily every time he breathes.
If he crashes, you bring him back. Again. And again.
Involuntarily, because once he fell back into unconsciousness, there hasn't been much else left.
When he dies, it'll be on my terms, not on his.
The same monitor flatlines at 4:32 PM.
What he hears most clearly at first is the noise of blood rushing in his ears. (That isn't possible, but what else could it be?)
Sylar sits on the edge of the cell's table, legs folded Indian-style beneath him, facing the barrier. The glass reflects nothing back but a smooth blank greyness. Puzzled, he stirs, turning to look over his shoulder, and --
Oh.
The detached frown deepens. Silently, he uncrosses his legs to slide off of the table, circle to the other side, stare down at the prone body. There's no movement. It's a collection of broken parts and little else. When Sylar rests a hand on its forehead, his index finger trails across the brow in a brief, instinctual gesture.
But when he leans in, eyes unblinking to take in every possible sound, he also hears something faint beneath the mass of silence.
Tick. Not quite so broken as it seemed at first.
Sylar smiles.
The heart monitor flatlines, but the one monitoring the man's brain activity doesn't, and the doctor -- running on assumptions and a need to take care of the body as soon as possible -- forgets to check before he unhooks the machines and makes the call to Bennet's cell phone.
He's only unfastened two restraints before Sylar opens his eyes.
