Kindred, part three
Mar. 15th, 2008 06:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
watchmakers_sonIt takes several more hours to complete -- far more time than he'd prefer, but he doesn't have a choice. Everything takes longer now, from movement to understanding to integration, and he has no guideposts to point the way; nothing but memories, muscle and otherwise, as he kneels besides Candice's body and works.
It will be worth it, though. It always is.
Once he's finished, Sylar finds a rag to clean the blood off of his hands and chucks it dismissively on top of her body. The ache in his stomach ratchets up at the movement; teeth clenched, he settles a hand over the bandages, exhales, and tries to ignore it. If he's to do this properly, he can't let himself be distracted.
Sylar closes his eyes to search. He might not be able to listen or see, but at least, he thinks, he'll be able to find the new part by instinct. This is what he was meant to do. It's ingrained into him. You shouldn't have to ask a bear to protect its cubs, or a moth to seek out the light.
Except he can't do it.
Sylar's chest seizes up as he opens his eyes to the same cement room.
He tries again: a different city. A beach. Himself, disguised as another man. Nothing fits, nothing works, and he can't see why or how or if it's even there at all, this new ability that should have grafted as perfectly as the others and yet didn't.
"What's wrong with me?" he half-gasps as he stumbles sideways, hitting the table -- and to think he should even have to ask that question --
(a question he asked of the doctors who were not real, in an imaginary environment where he lay powerless -- )
Panic mounting, Sylar lunges for the door of the shed. When he elbows it open, there's nothing around him but trees, air that tastes like damp vegetation, and too-bright sunlight that makes him flinch. He sways from side to side and stares, barely able to catch himself as he backs up a step to grab the doorframe.
He should not still be this unsure. He should know that it's real.
He doesn't.
Some time later, he begins to walk at an aching, wounded stagger; and a long while after that, the forest changes.
It will be worth it, though. It always is.
Once he's finished, Sylar finds a rag to clean the blood off of his hands and chucks it dismissively on top of her body. The ache in his stomach ratchets up at the movement; teeth clenched, he settles a hand over the bandages, exhales, and tries to ignore it. If he's to do this properly, he can't let himself be distracted.
Sylar closes his eyes to search. He might not be able to listen or see, but at least, he thinks, he'll be able to find the new part by instinct. This is what he was meant to do. It's ingrained into him. You shouldn't have to ask a bear to protect its cubs, or a moth to seek out the light.
Except he can't do it.
Sylar's chest seizes up as he opens his eyes to the same cement room.
He tries again: a different city. A beach. Himself, disguised as another man. Nothing fits, nothing works, and he can't see why or how or if it's even there at all, this new ability that should have grafted as perfectly as the others and yet didn't.
"What's wrong with me?" he half-gasps as he stumbles sideways, hitting the table -- and to think he should even have to ask that question --
(a question he asked of the doctors who were not real, in an imaginary environment where he lay powerless -- )
Panic mounting, Sylar lunges for the door of the shed. When he elbows it open, there's nothing around him but trees, air that tastes like damp vegetation, and too-bright sunlight that makes him flinch. He sways from side to side and stares, barely able to catch himself as he backs up a step to grab the doorframe.
He should not still be this unsure. He should know that it's real.
He doesn't.
Some time later, he begins to walk at an aching, wounded stagger; and a long while after that, the forest changes.
