watchmakers_son | Isaac's loft, November 7th

Isaac's loft, November 7th

[From here.]

Take your hand. Tighten it into a fist, as hard as you can. Hold it.

Keep holding it.

Hold it even as the muscles seize up, fingertips starting to tingle from lack of blood, cramps spreading down your entire arm and into your shoulder; hold it without the slightest change in pressure, knowing that if you let go -- even for a second -- you might bleed to death.

Add in the searing pain from the wound itself every time he moves or so much as breathes, and it may be understandable why Sylar's progress through the bar is labored at best.

He's several feet from the front door when a loud clatter catches his attention; he turns his head, watching Kaylee slam open the lake door with a gurney in tow.

He's still watching when the white-haired doctor sprints into the infirmary.

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There's only one test left.

As he takes another step, Sylar's eyes flick to the empty easel on the floor behind her. His left fingers uncurl, like shooing away an insect.

It takes effort to focus and find the threads, more than it should, but --

The easel scrapes backwards a foot with a muted shriek, sending the painting of the rooftop toppling to the ground, and a split second later, it rises into the air.

She jumps at the sound of wood against concrete, spinning around like a frightened animal in plenty of time to see the painting take flight.

Kim steps back from it, automatically, and then realizes what she's done. When she whirls back to face Sylar, she's standing within arms' reach, and it's easy to see the dark intent in the flat blackness of his glance.

She doesn't even think about it. Survival instinct takes over, and Kim shoves him as hard as she can, throwing both hands forward with all her weight and all the force of her terror behind the blow. It hits him mid-abdomen, right on the line of the wound that she'd just spent so much effort carefully stitching up.

Kim doesn't wait to see how he reacts, but spins and bolts for the front door.

The easel drops like a stone as pain explodes from his stomach, hot and fierce enough to send Sylar reeling with spots clouding his eyes. He stumbles backward, hits the bed, and immediately overbalances onto it, the room pitching wildly underneath him again.

He isn't aware that he's screaming from it.

He certainly isn't aware enough to realize that Kim's escaping.

Even in the middle of her panic, she winces at the sound of his scream, knowing it's because of what she's done-- but she's borne worse guilt in far better cause, and Kim doesn't turn or even slow in her flight. She reaches the door and yanks at it, desperate to escape while she still can, knowing it won't take him long to recover.

It's locked.

She loses precious seconds fumbling with the knob before she manages to turn the latch and drag it open. Kim stumbles outside, then flees wildly down the street.

She crashes into someone, an older woman who sniffs haughtily about the rudeness of kids these days as Kim pushes by without apologizing. She spares a moment to throw a glance back over her shoulder, then looks around frantically-- there are a few people on the street, but not many; nowhere near enough for her to blend in, not as distinctive as she is.

Kim spots an alley and dashes toward it, colliding with someone else on the way. There's a dumpster, and it reminds her; she takes shelter behind it as she strips off her white coat, cursing herself under her breath.

"You idiot, you utter idiot! It's not enough you have a werewolf for a patient in Milliways-- no, you have to go and get yourself kidnapped so you can end up as an ER doc for some psycho killer who eats brains. Now what are you going to do?"

M is for many things.

Murder is one. So is mayhem. And then there's misery, mediocrity, melancholy, and -- well. Lots of things.

But the word the woman says that catches Claude's attention isn't a word that begins with M that he hears all that often:

Milliways.

He dusts off his coat (fat lot of good that does) as he circles around the dumpster. What's the sound of one set of footsteps in this city, as long as you can't hear thunder forty miles off?

Claude has always been good at watching; he watches now. Watches as she talks to herself.

He folds his arms.

"I'll tell you what you're going to do," comes a -- seemingly -- disembodied voice. "You're going to listen. And you're not going to scream, and I'm not going to hurt you. That's a promise. All right?"

She's in the middle of stuffing her coat into the trash -- she's distinctive enough with white hair, the coat would only make it easier to spot her -- when the voice comes from behind her. Kim doesn't scream, but she can't help the startled cry that she lets out as she whirls around.

There's nobody there.

"Oh great, now I'm hearing things--"

"No, you're not," comes the voice.

It's...patient.

"Don't scream. Are you going to listen?"

"Well, I'll have to, won't I?" Kim snaps back, looking around as she does. It comes out sounding brittle, tight with nerves and tension.

"It's not like I can see you--"

"Want to bet?"

Hi, Claude.

Startled, she jerks backward and is brought up short by the dumpster.

Clear gray eyes are wide as Kim stares at him.

"Like I said. Don't scream. I'm not going to hurt you." He holds up his hands, empty. "Now -- what's this about werewolves and cannibals?"

"...well for one, they're not the same thing," she manages, after a moment. The mention of 'cannibals' is a sharp reminder, though, and the glance she throws toward the mouth of the alley is very nearly frantic.

"Look, I can't stay here -- he could be coming after me --"

Claude holds out his right hand to her. "Harder, if he can't see you." Beat. "And what do you mean, they're not the same thing? Everybody knows that."

"No, the werewolf is the one who doesn't want to kill me," she retorts.

It's been a long day, to say the least, and Kim's nerves are shot. She doesn't pay any attention to his hand; she doesn't seem to have noticed it.

"And there's nothing wrong with his eyesight--"

That gets a very large, very obvious eyeroll -- and he sticks out his hand again. "Look. You want to get out of sight? Take my hand."

It takes a second for his meaning to sink in, and even then, Kim hesitates--

--but considering the alternatives, not for long.

She reaches out and puts her hand in his.

Nothing changes.

From Kim's perspective, anyhow. Claude glances over his shoulder. "All right." He eyes her. "Milliways, you said. You come from there?"

"How did you-- never mind."

Impatient with herself, Kim shakes her head as if to clear it.

"Yes, that's where I-- that's where he brought me from."

"Pretty stupid of you," is his only comment. "And you want to go back, is that it?"

Nerves vanish under a rush of temper.

"Oh thanks ever so-- you heard the rest of it, obviously, so how did you miss the part about me being kidnapped? I didn't mean to come here, and of course I want to go back!"

Even as she snaps at him, Kim closes her eyes for a second, trying to find some sort of balance.

"Sorry. It's just-- it's been a really bad -- and I don't know why you're helping me, you don't even know me--"

"And the outbursts aren't exactly helping," Claude points out.

Cruelly.

"Eats brains, you said." He looks over his shoulder again. "You might try keeping your voice down. It doesn't extend to noise."

She hadn't thought, hadn't been paying attention enough to realize--

That's how Sylar got hold of you in the first place, now isn't it?

Even as Kim feels the now-familiar cold chill of fear rip through her, her fingers tighten on the stranger's. Kim moves an unconscious step closer to him, turning to look for herself.

There's no sign of anyone, and her breath rushes out in a quiet sigh.

"That's what they said." It's a lot quieter than before, barely above a whisper. "And then I saw -- I saw what he did to--"

A beat.

"His skull was empty. And hers, too. And I-- if he's after me..."

Claude's eyes narrow -- almost professionally. "You saw," he says carefully. "Tell me this, since it escaped another person of my acquaintance -- given that there's a genetic component to what I can do, and that this...whoever he is...is interested in brains -- "

Pause.

And he shakes his head. "It doesn't matter." And that's almost gentle. "Don't have time for that, if I'm right, so -- put it this way." He's taller than she is; he looks down at her now. "You're lucky you literally ran into me. More than you know. Now. What's your name?"

"It-- he-- "

She stops there, looking back up at him.

"Kim," she says, after a moment. "I'm Kim Ford."

"Nice to meet you, Kim."

Perfunctory at best -- but with the air of ritual.

"Now, let's run for our lives."

It's more like a brisk walk, really.

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