Gabriel Gray (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
watchmakers_son) wrote2008-03-14 08:25 pm
watchmakers_son) wrote2008-03-14 08:25 pm
Kindred, part two; March 2007
He expected it to clear after the sedatives wore off and, little by little, he eased himself out of the bed. He thought her voice would grow less muffled. He wondered when his hands -- his entire body, in truth -- would start to feel warm again.
Sylar has been waiting for hours now for the eerie silence to lift, and for the moment when he can look at something and know it's real by the way the patterns click and fit.
It still hasn't happened. The IV line can't be frozen or melted when he pinches it between his fingers, either; nor can he push the entire stand into the wall with a thoughtless gesture from several yards away.
If this is the truth, and all that came before was because of that woman --
-- then why can't he do anything?
It has to be a mistake. Seated at a small table, one hand curved, Sylar focuses on a mug resting a foot away from him and tries to pull.
It doesn't move. (HAVE A NICE DAY, it says along one side, just above a disproportionately cheerful smiley face.)
Sylar has been waiting for hours now for the eerie silence to lift, and for the moment when he can look at something and know it's real by the way the patterns click and fit.
It still hasn't happened. The IV line can't be frozen or melted when he pinches it between his fingers, either; nor can he push the entire stand into the wall with a thoughtless gesture from several yards away.
If this is the truth, and all that came before was because of that woman --
-- then why can't he do anything?
It has to be a mistake. Seated at a small table, one hand curved, Sylar focuses on a mug resting a foot away from him and tries to pull.
It doesn't move. (HAVE A NICE DAY, it says along one side, just above a disproportionately cheerful smiley face.)
no subject
Carefully, laboriously, Sylar gets to his feet, leaning on the table for support. He pushes away after a moment's pause and steps over his own body; VE A NI and one eye of the smiley face crunch underfoot.
"I know what happens without control," he hisses, easing himself into a crouch with equal care. "I've seen what abilities like yours can do, before they start to work."
As he reaches out to skate a finger along the short black hair near Candice's temple, the figure shimmers and melts, reshaping itself into a new one: neither Michelle nor the Candice he knows, but an overweight woman with mousy brown hair. Sylar draws back, briefly, before he smiles and settles his hand onto the bloodied side of her forehead.
"But," he whispers, "raw power never hurts. And if I'm going to get mine back -- "
He digs his fingers into her skin.
"Starting with yours will do just fine."