i am the jigsaw man

She nods, still staring at the mural on the floor.

"I ..."

Her voice dies there, lost under the awful weight of the painted images that press in on her, stealing breath and light and everything but the flame. For a dizzying timeless instant it's almost as though she's wearing the Baelrath again, carrying the burning wild power of the crimson fire on her hand. There's a different sort of power here, present in these paintings, one of a sort that's hauntingly familiar to the white-haired young woman known to some as the Seer of Brennin.

How could possibly I have missed it before?

And yet, even as she asks herself the question she realizes the answer. This isn't her world, nor is it Fionavar, the two worlds to which she belongs by right of birth and inherited knowledge -- both hers and Ysanne's combined -- and the vision captured in this art isn't the same, can't be the same, for all that it's near, both close and familiar.

Close enough for her to be slowly becoming more aware as she stands here in this apartment, in the presence of the paintings. It's as though something within her is straining to hear a whispered echo, or to understands words spoken in a different language.

From:

More weight shifted to his feet; three rapid blinks follow as the room threatens to start tilting again. Sylar shakes his head to clear it and, very briefly, shifts his focus to a canvas propped against the legs of an empty easel.

"And what do you see now?" he murmurs, turning back to Kim. "Is there anything to see?"

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There's a lot to see.

Kim doesn't answer him at first; she can't. She manages at last to lift her gaze from the floor, only to immediately catch sight of another image, this one of a familiar figure. For a second she almost smiles.

But as she slowly begins to turn back around, Kim spots a carefully-assembled series of paintings, and then a second, and as her clear gray eyes meet the painted dead ones of Isaac Mendez, Kim understands.

The sound of her low, shocked gasp is far too loud in the stillness of the loft, she knows it, and as Kim spins to face Sylar she is is suddenly, acutely aware of her surroundings.

Say something, for god's sake! You can't let him find out-- if he even guesses...

"You're frighteningly talented," she hears herself say, as if from a distance. Kim's never been a good liar, ever, but then again it's not exactly a lie, is it?

"It's hard to look away."

From:

First weight, now balance. The dizziness is continuing to retreat; Sylar keeps one hand against the mattress anyway as he starts to stand up. His other hand ghosts over the bandages again, as if he could steady himself there, too.

And the smile he gives Kim is the same nasty smile one would expect from a snake.

"Oh, it's much more than just talent, doctor," he tells her.

From:

"Oh?" she echoes, faintly. "What do you mean?"

She's got to do something, she knows that, but Kim Ford is frozen and utterly at a loss.

Think! You have to think-- if you don't, you're dead!

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A step. It's tentative, still shaky, but it's forward movement.

It's something other than lying on Isaac's bed like an invalid.

"'Talent,'" and there is the slightest weight of scorn to to that, "is something anyone can have. But gifts like mine..."

His hands fall to his sides, fingers curling inward.

"Those are much rarer."

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"Oh," she says again. "I'm sorry, I didn't-- this isn't my world, I didn't realize."

It's inane, she thinks, but if she can only keep him talking-- well, that has to be better than anything else, right?

As he moves forward, she has to fight the urge not to shrink back, and just the very fact of her fear sends a wave of annoyance through her.

Oh stop it, she snaps at herself, silently. He's not Darien!

Even as she argues it, she recognizes the flaw in her logic. Darien hadn't wanted to hurt her... or anyone.

This man already has.

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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.

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

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?"

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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?"

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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--"

From:

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

It's...patient.

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

From:

"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--"

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"Want to bet?"

Hi, Claude.

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

Clear gray eyes are wide as Kim stares at him.

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"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?"

From:

"...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 --"

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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."

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"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--"

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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."

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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.

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