Date: 2008-01-27 05:17 am (UTC)
watchmakers_son: (shadowed)
"No."

Sylar can feel the haze creeping up like cold tendrils; he struggles against it, but the pull downward is steady, firm, and as inexorable as...

Nothing is truly inexorable, is it.

(But that matters little when he's sinking this fast.)

With one last push, Sylar forms the words: "Tell me..."





The room splits into doubles, quadruples, more, fading, and then there's nothing but black.
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Gabriel Gray

November 2010

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