Gabriel Gray (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
watchmakers_son) wrote2008-03-11 09:57 pm
watchmakers_son) wrote2008-03-11 09:57 pm
November - December 2006; location unknown
There's nothing remarkable about this room, nor anything inside of it.
It's a perfect square lit in sickly yellow and off-white tones, the walls irregularly patterned from years of repainting. One of the fluorescent lights strobes every so often; when it doesn't, it buzzes, almost subaudibly, like a distant insect's whine. The single bed in the corner has a thin mattress and thinner sheets, and medical equipment -- all of it small and carefully cased and free of exposed wires -- arrays around it, holding sentinel.
The shoes by the bedside are the same dingy white shade as the walls. They have no shoelaces.
The window's crisscrossed with thick bars.
On the bed, Sylar makes a small noise -- something between pain and grogginess -- and cracks open his eyes.
It's a perfect square lit in sickly yellow and off-white tones, the walls irregularly patterned from years of repainting. One of the fluorescent lights strobes every so often; when it doesn't, it buzzes, almost subaudibly, like a distant insect's whine. The single bed in the corner has a thin mattress and thinner sheets, and medical equipment -- all of it small and carefully cased and free of exposed wires -- arrays around it, holding sentinel.
The shoes by the bedside are the same dingy white shade as the walls. They have no shoelaces.
The window's crisscrossed with thick bars.
On the bed, Sylar makes a small noise -- something between pain and grogginess -- and cracks open his eyes.
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It's not spoken with any of his familiar surety, or of knowing beyond a doubt. It's more like a quiet, dawning realization -- and a quiet, dawning horror.
All this time, the light was broken.
"I can't see it."
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Then his eyes lock onto Peter's, utterly furious.
"What did you do to me?"
It starts out low. By the time it's peaked into a shout, he's rounded up all of the strength he can -- some lying dormant, most of it due to the sudden surge of adrenaline -- and launched himself toward Peter.
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Peter tries to pull it back, and for a moment they're falling
(8:12 and the clock whirs smoothly)
but the floor they land on is smooth tile, not concrete. Peter's finger finds the emergency button.
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The orderlies are on the fighting pair in a flash, and the nurse is pulling Peter out of the fray and out the door. Sylar is now being held down by four large men with another keeping his head still.
The nurse returns, still pretty and neat with a bright smile. She kneels down next to Sylar's head and takes out a small flashlight. "Gabriel? Do you understand me, Gabriel?" She forces Sylar's eyes open one at a time and flashes her light to check his pupils.
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(Nothing works; it clamors over and over, like a mantra, nothing works, nothing works, nothing is working -- )
"Let go of me." He bares his teeth. "Let go."
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And smiles.
"Not going to happen."
And then she is pulling back with a syringe in her fist and slamming the needle down, through the thick muscle and breast plate, and into Sylar's heart. She is still smiling as she pushes down on the plunger.
"I've always wanted to do that," she tells him. "How does it feel?"
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How it feels is like raw, hot wire plunged into his chest and scraped up the inside of his veins, radiating out further and further with each pulse of his heart. It feels like weights settling onto his stomach, and arms, and mind.
He doesn't articulate that. He can't even begin to try.
His arms jerk again, on reflex; then he is still.
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