The Kindness of Strangers, part two
Jul. 4th, 2008 01:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
watchmakers_son"There are killers in the car with us."
Sylar's head snaps around. At first, all he can do is fix Derek with a carefully blank look. When he starts to laugh in disbelief, though, it doesn't sound forced. "What?"
"No, I'm serious!" Derek jabs a finger at the convenience store paper's inch-high headline. "Homocidio. Right there." It's set above two police sketches: graying and indistinct, yet, rather unmistakably, of Alejandro and Maya.
Sylar reaches for the paper, pinching it between two fingers so he can angle it closer. Derek shoots him another anxious glance; Sylar notices, but doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, he turns toward the car where the other two are still sitting.
"Golly." The disbelief is much more cultivated this time. "They seem so..."
"Dude, I have been riding with them for two days," Derek interrupts, voice starting to shake. By the time Sylar turns back to him, the rest of him's trembling, too. And he can't say it's unexpected, but it's certainly unwelcome when Derek follows up with a naked plea:
"We gotta ditch them."
Silence. A small crease forms between Sylar's eyebrows. Quickly, if not as quickly as before, his options fall together. They shape out patterns just as vague -- but ultimately just as recognizable -- as the sketches; Sylar listens to the quiet, watches nothing, and makes his move anyway.
"Okay, um..." He throws another swift glance toward the car. "All right. I'll distract them, and you, uh..." Taking the newspaper from Derek, "You go call the police. There's a pay phone right inside."
Instant relief breaks over Derek's face. With a grin, he claps Sylar on the shoulder as he walks past; Sylar answers it with a brief smile of his own that's gone as soon as Derek's back is turned. Sylar pivots, watching him go.
He picks up the brick weighing down the rest of the newspapers, placing his copy on top of them. The edges flap in the breeze.
He doesn't return the brick to its spot before following Derek.
This is all he has, and he will not lose it this quickly because of some cowardly, idiot child.
They don't even have the good sense to deny it when he confronts them. Alejandro tries -- Sylar thinks he tries, at least -- but he doesn't get very far before Maya interrupts.
"Yes," she whispers. "It is us. But this..." Sylar sighs and lets the newspaper fall. Maya's eyes fill with tears as she pleads, "It is not our fault. We didn't mean to hurt anyone!"
The last few weeks have been nothing but a long string of difficulties. He does not need any more difficulties, least of all this, and that irritation leaks into his voice despite himself. "Well, you can tell the police that, because Derek is calling them right now."
Before he's even finished speaking, Maya gasps, horrified, and starts shaking her head vehemently. "No no no no no, please, no," she begs. "He cannot!"
"¿Qué, qué, qué, qué?" demands Alejandro. Maya answers, the long sentences of Spanish pockmarked with frantic gestures that shudder to an abrupt halt, and then --
He can't breathe. It's like a fist seized around his stomach, heart, all of his muscles, tight and twisting, wringing them out. Something hot and wet pours into his lungs; Sylar chokes and falls forward against the steering wheel.
Except it's not collecting in his mouth. It's rushing higher: his vision starts to cloud over as something black and viscous -- blood? It seems too dark for that -- seeps out of his eyes and starts trailing down his face. Everything's spinning. He's too weak to move. He can't breathe.
"What are you doing to me?" he gasps, strangled, struggling upright and turning blindly toward Maya.
Through the haze, he can just barely see it when Alejandro seizes her hands, whispering to her in Spanish. Maya's own eyes are pitch black, no whites or pupils or irises to be seen; black tears run down her face as she heaves in a breath, struggling to bring her own panicked gasping under control. They bow their heads. As Maya's eyes clear, Alejandro's black out.
Then his, too, are clear...and so are Sylar's, as the chokehold suddenly releases and he hauls in an enormous breath.
The anxiety radiating from them both is palpable as they watch him. Dazed, he grasps the steering wheel to pull himself the rest of the way upright. Sylar meets their eyes.
This is why, he realizes as the last of the constriction fades. This is why the secrecy, the dash to the border, why they're looking for Mohinder: "You both have power," he whispers, very close to awe.
This -- oh, this will be so much more useful than he anticipated.
"It is not our fault." Maya's throat is still clogged up with tears. "We don't know what's happening to us."
Sylar releases another breath. It's effortless to switch over, muster up the easy earnestness he remembers of Zane Taylor; easier still because so little of what he says is a lie. "Believe me, I understand what you're going through," he says, soft and reassuring. "To be held responsible for things that you didn't mean to do. Being hunted." He shakes his head. "I've helped Suresh with so many people like you. He'll know what to do."
"But the police -- " Maya starts to turn around, looking out the window as if the cops are already descending.
Sylar stops her. Holding up the keys he swiped from Derek's body, he jingles them, once.
"They'll have to catch us first," he tells her with a grin, and starts the ignition.
Sylar's head snaps around. At first, all he can do is fix Derek with a carefully blank look. When he starts to laugh in disbelief, though, it doesn't sound forced. "What?"
"No, I'm serious!" Derek jabs a finger at the convenience store paper's inch-high headline. "Homocidio. Right there." It's set above two police sketches: graying and indistinct, yet, rather unmistakably, of Alejandro and Maya.
Sylar reaches for the paper, pinching it between two fingers so he can angle it closer. Derek shoots him another anxious glance; Sylar notices, but doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, he turns toward the car where the other two are still sitting.
"Golly." The disbelief is much more cultivated this time. "They seem so..."
"Dude, I have been riding with them for two days," Derek interrupts, voice starting to shake. By the time Sylar turns back to him, the rest of him's trembling, too. And he can't say it's unexpected, but it's certainly unwelcome when Derek follows up with a naked plea:
"We gotta ditch them."
Silence. A small crease forms between Sylar's eyebrows. Quickly, if not as quickly as before, his options fall together. They shape out patterns just as vague -- but ultimately just as recognizable -- as the sketches; Sylar listens to the quiet, watches nothing, and makes his move anyway.
"Okay, um..." He throws another swift glance toward the car. "All right. I'll distract them, and you, uh..." Taking the newspaper from Derek, "You go call the police. There's a pay phone right inside."
Instant relief breaks over Derek's face. With a grin, he claps Sylar on the shoulder as he walks past; Sylar answers it with a brief smile of his own that's gone as soon as Derek's back is turned. Sylar pivots, watching him go.
He picks up the brick weighing down the rest of the newspapers, placing his copy on top of them. The edges flap in the breeze.
He doesn't return the brick to its spot before following Derek.
This is all he has, and he will not lose it this quickly because of some cowardly, idiot child.
They don't even have the good sense to deny it when he confronts them. Alejandro tries -- Sylar thinks he tries, at least -- but he doesn't get very far before Maya interrupts.
"Yes," she whispers. "It is us. But this..." Sylar sighs and lets the newspaper fall. Maya's eyes fill with tears as she pleads, "It is not our fault. We didn't mean to hurt anyone!"
The last few weeks have been nothing but a long string of difficulties. He does not need any more difficulties, least of all this, and that irritation leaks into his voice despite himself. "Well, you can tell the police that, because Derek is calling them right now."
Before he's even finished speaking, Maya gasps, horrified, and starts shaking her head vehemently. "No no no no no, please, no," she begs. "He cannot!"
"¿Qué, qué, qué, qué?" demands Alejandro. Maya answers, the long sentences of Spanish pockmarked with frantic gestures that shudder to an abrupt halt, and then --
He can't breathe. It's like a fist seized around his stomach, heart, all of his muscles, tight and twisting, wringing them out. Something hot and wet pours into his lungs; Sylar chokes and falls forward against the steering wheel.
Except it's not collecting in his mouth. It's rushing higher: his vision starts to cloud over as something black and viscous -- blood? It seems too dark for that -- seeps out of his eyes and starts trailing down his face. Everything's spinning. He's too weak to move. He can't breathe.
"What are you doing to me?" he gasps, strangled, struggling upright and turning blindly toward Maya.
Through the haze, he can just barely see it when Alejandro seizes her hands, whispering to her in Spanish. Maya's own eyes are pitch black, no whites or pupils or irises to be seen; black tears run down her face as she heaves in a breath, struggling to bring her own panicked gasping under control. They bow their heads. As Maya's eyes clear, Alejandro's black out.
Then his, too, are clear...and so are Sylar's, as the chokehold suddenly releases and he hauls in an enormous breath.
The anxiety radiating from them both is palpable as they watch him. Dazed, he grasps the steering wheel to pull himself the rest of the way upright. Sylar meets their eyes.
This is why, he realizes as the last of the constriction fades. This is why the secrecy, the dash to the border, why they're looking for Mohinder: "You both have power," he whispers, very close to awe.
This -- oh, this will be so much more useful than he anticipated.
"It is not our fault." Maya's throat is still clogged up with tears. "We don't know what's happening to us."
Sylar releases another breath. It's effortless to switch over, muster up the easy earnestness he remembers of Zane Taylor; easier still because so little of what he says is a lie. "Believe me, I understand what you're going through," he says, soft and reassuring. "To be held responsible for things that you didn't mean to do. Being hunted." He shakes his head. "I've helped Suresh with so many people like you. He'll know what to do."
"But the police -- " Maya starts to turn around, looking out the window as if the cops are already descending.
Sylar stops her. Holding up the keys he swiped from Derek's body, he jingles them, once.
"They'll have to catch us first," he tells her with a grin, and starts the ignition.
