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It takes a while, after that.
Quite a long while.
It's less a matter of riding out the pain, all-encompassing as it is, than of staying awake: struggling against the black haze that fuzzes the room as the floor heaves and the agony, white-hot, burns through his stomach. He has to spit out a final mouthful of blood (though there is far less of it by now, pinkish instead of dark red) before he can sit up, hands pressed gingerly to the fresh sutures. The gauze underneath his shirt feels stiff and matted; the room whirls again as soon as he's upright before it finally settles into a grudging, tenuous steadiness. It feels like standing on quicksand. One misstep, and he'll stumble back into vertigo.
Sylar can move, but not very fast, and he's running out of time.
The doctor's long gone. He glances to the scene he painted of Ted Sprague, hands aglow and an orangish flame-like blob spiraling upward behind him. A sculpture, maybe; Sylar thinks he vaguely knows the shape. If he squints and leans his head to the left, just a little, it almost looks like the twisting double staircase in Kirby Plaza further downtown.
It's a start.
He pushes himself to his feet, and, bloodied hands dragging along the rail for support, stumbles to the front door.
( Read more... )
Quite a long while.
It's less a matter of riding out the pain, all-encompassing as it is, than of staying awake: struggling against the black haze that fuzzes the room as the floor heaves and the agony, white-hot, burns through his stomach. He has to spit out a final mouthful of blood (though there is far less of it by now, pinkish instead of dark red) before he can sit up, hands pressed gingerly to the fresh sutures. The gauze underneath his shirt feels stiff and matted; the room whirls again as soon as he's upright before it finally settles into a grudging, tenuous steadiness. It feels like standing on quicksand. One misstep, and he'll stumble back into vertigo.
Sylar can move, but not very fast, and he's running out of time.
The doctor's long gone. He glances to the scene he painted of Ted Sprague, hands aglow and an orangish flame-like blob spiraling upward behind him. A sculpture, maybe; Sylar thinks he vaguely knows the shape. If he squints and leans his head to the left, just a little, it almost looks like the twisting double staircase in Kirby Plaza further downtown.
It's a start.
He pushes himself to his feet, and, bloodied hands dragging along the rail for support, stumbles to the front door.
( Read more... )
