The Kindness of Strangers, part one
May. 1st, 2008 03:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
watchmakers_sonSylar tries to leave Milliways more than once.
The door's visible, but doesn't yield when he tries to open it. (It's inconvenient, but it makes sense: if he arrived without a door, of course he'd have to leave without one.) The forest...he's deliberately avoided the outside, knowing it puts him at a disadvantage. When he finally gathers his energy and begins to walk, he's deposited back on its edge within twenty minutes.
That happens four times. On the fifth, when he swipes his hand along a tree trunk to catch his balance, the bark feels warm and damp with condensation. He looks up to a canopy rippled with flat palm leaves and smiles, with no relief or satisfaction.
It's as Dr. Suresh said once: not all progress might be welcomed, but it must be undertaken for the sake of survival.
Time slips again. It grows colder, darker, but the trees don't change. Sylar shucks off his shirt and wads it up to use as a pillow, sleeping fitfully on the ground. He wakes with his throat and face burning, lips so dry that the skin tears when he tries to moisten them.
(Before, he would have had the foresight to ask Bar for a canteen and food rations before leaving. He'd forgotten, or it hadn't occurred to him: both options make him squeeze his hands so tightly that the knuckles pop.)
When night falls a second time, he doesn't stop. Something primal prods him on, caught in the certainty that if he stops, he won't be able to pick himself up again to keep going. Steps turn to exhausted staggering; the heat raises mist off of the ground, and it's only once Sylar breaks through the treeline, reaching hilly scrubland, that he becomes aware that the "mist" is his eyes blurring and unfocusing as he stumbles on.
Sylar coughs. There's no moisture, and it cracks against the papery feel of his throat.
Much, much later, he finds the road.
It's basic survival skills: roads point to civilization. Civilization leads to people.
People lead to a way out.
There's a strange, liquid feeling in his legs by now, like they're moving too fast (even though he's barely moving at all). Something caws, muted; dazed by the heat, Sylar rocks his head back and tries to shade his eyes.
That's a mistake. When his head moves, it keeps going, too heavy to catch. He heaves forward to compensate, loses his balance, and pitches face first onto the unpaved road.
The same primal instinct, assuming it's no longer needed, gives up.
Sylar passes out with the taste of dust in his mouth.
Movement. Something pushing him, hands on his shoulders, arms, the back of his neck; spinning. Another hand on his cheek.
He opens his eyes and sees three blurry shapes above him. Faces.
All he can manage before he blacks out again is a choking, "Help me."
He comes to in the back seat of a moving car with a woman pressing a damp cloth to his forehead. "You are awake," she says; despite the heavily accented English, her relief's unmistakable. She shifts the cloth this cheek. "We were thinking it would take longer."
Sylar never thought something so cold would feel so wonderful. "Water," he croaks. "Please. Do you have any?"
"Uh -- " The driver reaches around the gearshift. Soon, he's fumbling a half-empty Dasani bottle back to the woman; she gives it to Sylar, and, cursing mentally at how it sloshes in his trembling hands, he pries off the cap, gulping the water so fast that some of it spills down his chin. The bottle slides from his grip as soon as he's done and thuds on the car floor.
"Where are we?" he asks, leaning against the headrest to close his eyes. The woman makes a small, concerned noise in the back of her throat and dabs at his temple again.
"Hell if I know," says the driver -- no accent there, or rather one that's distinctly American. "The GPS stopped working yesterday. But I think we're, like, a couple days from the border." Eyeing Sylar in the rearview mirror, he adds a wry, "Where's your stuff? You're traveling pretty light."
"I got robbed." It's not a lie, he thinks with some bitterness. Noticing there's something soft underneath his head, he reaches up: it's his shirt, balled up to form a cushion between his head and the window. "Been walking for -- " How long? His head's pounding from dehydration nearly too hard to think. "Three days. Thank God you came along."
A third voice speaks up from the front passenger seat as a young Hispanic man turns around. He's looking at the woman rather than Sylar, and Sylar can't grasp anything he says. It's only after she translates, haltingly -- "Um, where are you going?" -- that he understands why.
"Going home," he rasps. It's all he can come up with. Readjusting the makeshift pillow, he thinks to add a beat later, "To America. New York."
The woman's whole face brightens. She takes the cloth away. "New York?" she exclaims. "This is where we're going!" Beaming, she indicates herself and the man in the passenger seat.
Sylar's eyebrows draw together. "Do you have family there?"
"No." Her smile wanes. She studies him back in kind before visibly coming to a decision. "Um -- " As she leans down to rummage through a dusty bag near her feet, she continues, "We are looking for this man."
"Maya, no!" the passenger hisses, but Maya ignores him, pressing something heavy into his Sylar's hands. Sylar looks down.
Chandra Suresh's face, scratched and streaked with mud, looks back up at him.
"Doctor Suresh," she says, unnecessarily, as Sylar continues to stare, dumbstruck, before flipping the book over. Activando La Evolucion, says the front cover; it's as filthy as the back, and he leaves narrow stripes over it as he traces out the familiar S-shaped logo.
"This is a coincidence," he whispers. "I know this book. I've read it."
"Really?"
"Que es -- ¿dándole el libro?" demands the passenger. Quickly, she hushes him, answering back in the same rapid-fire Spanish.
Sylar interrupts them. "Why are you searching for Dr. Suresh?"
Maya turns around. "For, ah...how you say this. Uh." She flounders and glances down as she searches for the right word. "Answers."
"To what?" He's fixed Maya with the same intent, unblinking stare he gave the book. Uncertain, as she meets his eyes, Maya presses her lips together and doesn't answer. Sylar eases himself a little straighter, the better to lean in: reassuring, confidential, if still exhausted. "I know Dr. Suresh. We're old friends."
Less than, by the end, but she doesn't need to know that. Without thinking, he turns over the book, sparing Chandra's photograph another quick glance. Mohinder should be living at his father's apartment still; he'll have their combined studies, their results, all of the accumulated knowledge Sylar can no longer see. But once he has it again...
Maya's stare has turned to open surprise. "You know Dr. Suresh?"
"You've helped me," he tells her. "Now I can return the favor. I can -- "
I can repair myself. Find out what's happened.
He looks up. "I can take you to him. I can help you find him."
If Maya was beaming before, her smile's incandescent now. The passenger, on the other hand, doesn't stop frowning as he says something to her. From Maya's animated response, and the unfading grin -- "Conoce al hombre escribió el libro. A todas las personas que podríamos encontrando; ¡es increíble!" -- she seems to be explaining the situation.
"Sí." That much, Sylar understands, even though the man continues to eye him suspiciously. "Increíble."
"Es un milagro." That, too: it's a miracle. Sylar smiles. After a few more brisk sentences of Spanish, Maya turns back to him, laughing. "Thank you! I don't know what to say. I don't even know your name."
His smile fades.
What's your name?
I don't know that, either.
No matter what the truth might have been, so long as the people of Milliways continued to think him dangerous -- even just a few of them -- it gave him power. He could, perhaps, be a shadow of Sylar there, if he tried. Out here...well.
They all know the truth out here.
"It's Gabriel," he whispers. His response is quicker than he was expecting -- quicker, even, than he means it to be, as if he barely has to think about it. "Gabriel Gray."
"Gabriel," repeats Maya, her accent compressing the first syllable into a short a. With a swift intake of breath, a dawning awe breaks over her expression. "Like the angel."
Sylar's smile is completely humorless when it reappears. "Yeah," he murmurs as he turns toward the window. On either side of them, the barren Mexican landscape rolls past. He traces his thumb along the wristband of his broken watch. "Just like the angel."
The door's visible, but doesn't yield when he tries to open it. (It's inconvenient, but it makes sense: if he arrived without a door, of course he'd have to leave without one.) The forest...he's deliberately avoided the outside, knowing it puts him at a disadvantage. When he finally gathers his energy and begins to walk, he's deposited back on its edge within twenty minutes.
That happens four times. On the fifth, when he swipes his hand along a tree trunk to catch his balance, the bark feels warm and damp with condensation. He looks up to a canopy rippled with flat palm leaves and smiles, with no relief or satisfaction.
It's as Dr. Suresh said once: not all progress might be welcomed, but it must be undertaken for the sake of survival.
Time slips again. It grows colder, darker, but the trees don't change. Sylar shucks off his shirt and wads it up to use as a pillow, sleeping fitfully on the ground. He wakes with his throat and face burning, lips so dry that the skin tears when he tries to moisten them.
(Before, he would have had the foresight to ask Bar for a canteen and food rations before leaving. He'd forgotten, or it hadn't occurred to him: both options make him squeeze his hands so tightly that the knuckles pop.)
When night falls a second time, he doesn't stop. Something primal prods him on, caught in the certainty that if he stops, he won't be able to pick himself up again to keep going. Steps turn to exhausted staggering; the heat raises mist off of the ground, and it's only once Sylar breaks through the treeline, reaching hilly scrubland, that he becomes aware that the "mist" is his eyes blurring and unfocusing as he stumbles on.
Sylar coughs. There's no moisture, and it cracks against the papery feel of his throat.
Much, much later, he finds the road.
It's basic survival skills: roads point to civilization. Civilization leads to people.
People lead to a way out.
There's a strange, liquid feeling in his legs by now, like they're moving too fast (even though he's barely moving at all). Something caws, muted; dazed by the heat, Sylar rocks his head back and tries to shade his eyes.
That's a mistake. When his head moves, it keeps going, too heavy to catch. He heaves forward to compensate, loses his balance, and pitches face first onto the unpaved road.
The same primal instinct, assuming it's no longer needed, gives up.
Sylar passes out with the taste of dust in his mouth.
Movement. Something pushing him, hands on his shoulders, arms, the back of his neck; spinning. Another hand on his cheek.
He opens his eyes and sees three blurry shapes above him. Faces.
All he can manage before he blacks out again is a choking, "Help me."
He comes to in the back seat of a moving car with a woman pressing a damp cloth to his forehead. "You are awake," she says; despite the heavily accented English, her relief's unmistakable. She shifts the cloth this cheek. "We were thinking it would take longer."
Sylar never thought something so cold would feel so wonderful. "Water," he croaks. "Please. Do you have any?"
"Uh -- " The driver reaches around the gearshift. Soon, he's fumbling a half-empty Dasani bottle back to the woman; she gives it to Sylar, and, cursing mentally at how it sloshes in his trembling hands, he pries off the cap, gulping the water so fast that some of it spills down his chin. The bottle slides from his grip as soon as he's done and thuds on the car floor.
"Where are we?" he asks, leaning against the headrest to close his eyes. The woman makes a small, concerned noise in the back of her throat and dabs at his temple again.
"Hell if I know," says the driver -- no accent there, or rather one that's distinctly American. "The GPS stopped working yesterday. But I think we're, like, a couple days from the border." Eyeing Sylar in the rearview mirror, he adds a wry, "Where's your stuff? You're traveling pretty light."
"I got robbed." It's not a lie, he thinks with some bitterness. Noticing there's something soft underneath his head, he reaches up: it's his shirt, balled up to form a cushion between his head and the window. "Been walking for -- " How long? His head's pounding from dehydration nearly too hard to think. "Three days. Thank God you came along."
A third voice speaks up from the front passenger seat as a young Hispanic man turns around. He's looking at the woman rather than Sylar, and Sylar can't grasp anything he says. It's only after she translates, haltingly -- "Um, where are you going?" -- that he understands why.
"Going home," he rasps. It's all he can come up with. Readjusting the makeshift pillow, he thinks to add a beat later, "To America. New York."
The woman's whole face brightens. She takes the cloth away. "New York?" she exclaims. "This is where we're going!" Beaming, she indicates herself and the man in the passenger seat.
Sylar's eyebrows draw together. "Do you have family there?"
"No." Her smile wanes. She studies him back in kind before visibly coming to a decision. "Um -- " As she leans down to rummage through a dusty bag near her feet, she continues, "We are looking for this man."
"Maya, no!" the passenger hisses, but Maya ignores him, pressing something heavy into his Sylar's hands. Sylar looks down.
Chandra Suresh's face, scratched and streaked with mud, looks back up at him.
"Doctor Suresh," she says, unnecessarily, as Sylar continues to stare, dumbstruck, before flipping the book over. Activando La Evolucion, says the front cover; it's as filthy as the back, and he leaves narrow stripes over it as he traces out the familiar S-shaped logo.
"This is a coincidence," he whispers. "I know this book. I've read it."
"Really?"
"Que es -- ¿dándole el libro?" demands the passenger. Quickly, she hushes him, answering back in the same rapid-fire Spanish.
Sylar interrupts them. "Why are you searching for Dr. Suresh?"
Maya turns around. "For, ah...how you say this. Uh." She flounders and glances down as she searches for the right word. "Answers."
"To what?" He's fixed Maya with the same intent, unblinking stare he gave the book. Uncertain, as she meets his eyes, Maya presses her lips together and doesn't answer. Sylar eases himself a little straighter, the better to lean in: reassuring, confidential, if still exhausted. "I know Dr. Suresh. We're old friends."
Less than, by the end, but she doesn't need to know that. Without thinking, he turns over the book, sparing Chandra's photograph another quick glance. Mohinder should be living at his father's apartment still; he'll have their combined studies, their results, all of the accumulated knowledge Sylar can no longer see. But once he has it again...
Maya's stare has turned to open surprise. "You know Dr. Suresh?"
"You've helped me," he tells her. "Now I can return the favor. I can -- "
I can repair myself. Find out what's happened.
He looks up. "I can take you to him. I can help you find him."
If Maya was beaming before, her smile's incandescent now. The passenger, on the other hand, doesn't stop frowning as he says something to her. From Maya's animated response, and the unfading grin -- "Conoce al hombre escribió el libro. A todas las personas que podríamos encontrando; ¡es increíble!" -- she seems to be explaining the situation.
"Sí." That much, Sylar understands, even though the man continues to eye him suspiciously. "Increíble."
"Es un milagro." That, too: it's a miracle. Sylar smiles. After a few more brisk sentences of Spanish, Maya turns back to him, laughing. "Thank you! I don't know what to say. I don't even know your name."
His smile fades.
What's your name?
I don't know that, either.
No matter what the truth might have been, so long as the people of Milliways continued to think him dangerous -- even just a few of them -- it gave him power. He could, perhaps, be a shadow of Sylar there, if he tried. Out here...well.
They all know the truth out here.
"It's Gabriel," he whispers. His response is quicker than he was expecting -- quicker, even, than he means it to be, as if he barely has to think about it. "Gabriel Gray."
"Gabriel," repeats Maya, her accent compressing the first syllable into a short a. With a swift intake of breath, a dawning awe breaks over her expression. "Like the angel."
Sylar's smile is completely humorless when it reappears. "Yeah," he murmurs as he turns toward the window. On either side of them, the barren Mexican landscape rolls past. He traces his thumb along the wristband of his broken watch. "Just like the angel."
