January 2007

[watchmakers_son]

The next time he opens his eyes, Sylar's face to face with the silent thunderclap of a star going nova.

He freezes. Blinks once. Lifts his hand, cautious and slow, without stepping back. The sleeve of his thin cotton shirt slides back an inch as he presses light fingertips to the Observation Window; it's like touching a sheet of ice, and narrow white circles of fog instantly appear around his fingers.

It's disorientingly quiet.

He's standing up, though, he realizes. And nothing hurts.

Thoughtful, Sylar brushes his fingers through the condensation. It squeaks faintly as the patterns warp and streak away. As he turns around, the lights flicker above him, and for half an instant

the floor's just as cold, there are bars across the window, there is --

When they steady again, it's far too bright, and the walls...he doesn't think they were that pale.

He can't be sure.

Comments

[watchmakers_son]

In the deadened silence, the slurp -- and the voice -- should be deafening. They're not.

Sylar jerks his head up all the same, squinting, trying to lift a hand to ward off the light. The strings are gone, but his arm moves sluggishly anyway, as if weighted down or pushing through water.

And when he sees the woman, it falls again to touch the floor.

"Who are you?" he rasps, clumsily pushing himself to his knees.

It's not like the others. There, at least, there was the vague tickle at the back of his mind, a connection waiting to be forged. With her, there is nothing. A blank slate.

[shimmershift.livejournal.com]

"Haven't you guessed?"

She slides off the bar stool, taking her milkshake with her, and sways over to Sylar. Kneeling down, she takes another slurp before offering the straw to him.

"Cherry, chocolate, blueberry," she tells him.

[watchmakers_son]

The confusion shifts, shuttering back to a glare. His wrists hurt; unthinking, Sylar circles his left one with his right hand, massaging it, feeling out the bones and the empty space where a watch should be.

(If it was ever there at all.)

"I don't. Know," he tells her as he fixes her with a look. Each word is heavy and weighted in the back of his throat; he ignores the milkshake.

[shimmershift.livejournal.com]

Candice shrugs and takes another slurp.

"Create a metaphorical construct and have it in the shape of a skinny white girl? Come on. I doubt I could even lift twenty pounds. What does this say about the creator? So...innocent." She rolls her eyes in his direction.

"But I gotta say, loved the bondage fetish."

[watchmakers_son]

Metaphorical construct.

Delusion.

Sylar makes an incoherent noise of frustration, almost like a growl, as he rocks forward and tries to lunge at her.

[shimmershift.livejournal.com]

And this time, it is thick, rope like vines bursting out of the ground to wrap about his wrists and ankles. Pulling him down so he is spread eagle on the (cold, cement) floor.

"I would have thought you more of the dominate type. Always push, never flow. But, may be you finally understand," Candice tells him conversationally as she kneels on either side of his trapped hips, "that to be submissive is to be truly in power. Because then, and only then, do you have the strength to say..."

His mother whispers with a butterfly touch to his temple, "...stop."

[watchmakers_son]

Whatever he could think to say dies in his throat.

Sylar doesn't move -- can't move, wouldn't be able to move even if the restraints weren't tightening to the point that his fingertips burn with pins and needles.

(It's the back of his neck that hurts now, a sting widening to an ache widening to true pain that draws his breath up short.)

If the other woman was a figment then (everything) this must be too -- he shuts his eyes and yanks his head away from her touch, slamming it against the floor with a muted crack.

And he still can't speak.

[shimmershift.livejournal.com]

Virginia hesitates and pulls her shaking hands back, folding them in her lap (but still plucking at her skirt).

Because they are in the hospital once again, and Gabriel is restrained in his bed.

"They say--the doctors--" She gulps and looks away. "You hurt yourself. Again. So you have to..."

"My poor boy." But she doesn't reach out again. "My poor, poor boy."

[watchmakers_son]

It feels like he's gone into freefall. The entire room's swimming, vertigo making the bed sway; he can't make his eyes focus.

But in the blur, he thinks he sees her.

"Mom -- "

It's gone, into the surrounding smears of gray and white and yellow, and he leans his head back, stomach heaving, as he shuts his eyes.

Not real, he thinks. Not real.