disclaimer: heroes does not belong to me. it belongs to tim kring.
a/n: basically, my own view on how similar the two are. flashes, memories from all seasons. also, a few theories on how sylar's power works. especially since he's appeared to have lost all but telekinesis and his own power. i mean, if he still had the superhearing, wouldn't he had known what noah was up to at the carousel? instead, he hesitated. not something i can see him doing.
also, if he had the past power, he's touched elle. shouldn't he have known about her "betrayal"?
so many questions. i've given my own tentative version/explanation below. please enjoy. and review. i hate karma. lol.
****************************************************
He remembers being weak, most of all. Gabriel was a victim of life, too afraid to take a chance. Too fearful to become something more. Sitting contentedly in the shadowed box, catching glimpses of the outside world; a stranger in a foreign land viewing something he did not quite understand. Truthfully, at the time, he hadn't wanted to either. Gabriel Gray was perfectly happy to be left alone.
Well, not perfectly. It was an acceptance, realizing this was the best life could give him: an empty apartment, shabby workshop, bothersome mother. But really, what more did he need?
As it turned out, much more than he had originally anticipated. Being confined in that box felt like a children's toy. Jack-in-the-box. He made his appearance, now it was time to go back. But suddenly he didn't want to; that single brief glimpse had come to mean something. It was difficult to verbalize but he imagined it would be like being blind your entire life before one random day seeing the rainbow. And then having it all ripped away. A second loss. He felt that exact same way- twice before, in fact.
The injection the company gave him at first, the startling rage that he was now ordinary. Just a simple Jack, nothing great. He didn't even have music anymore. The second blindness came the day of the eclipse. This time nobody had taken it away, it was a completely natural event. This knowledge had a reverse effect if it was supposed to calm him. He was annoyed to still be susceptible to even the laws of man. He should've been unlimited instead of powerless and dying in a garage lot.
Some things just don't work out the way we plan them.
Or how we expected them to be. Arthur Petrelli, his not-father. Sylar had thought he'd finally found his family, where he belonged in life. A father, two brothers, a mother, a niece. Then the sand shifted again, the picture thrown askew. If Arthur Petrelli wasn't his father, was the rest of it all a lie as well? Peter, his brother? Angela, his mother? Or just a fabrication, a manipulation like Bennet had warned/gloated about? Was this all just a prelude to disappointment?
He supposes he should know the answer but is aware to not jump to conclusions. Angela could still very well be his mother. But Sylar was done taking chances about the matter, especially considering his new ability. Lie detection. He knows he could've taken the ability without killing the woman. But honestly, he doesn't quite have that perfected just yet. It takes time, patience. Things he doesn't have right now, can't afford. He resorted to the more physical aspect, like when he was just beginning but this doesn't bother him so much.
It was almost natural, falling back to the old routine. Two fingers lifted, ready to strike, mapping out the person's fate. A simple flawless cut in the forehead, raindrops of red sliding down, the sudden breath intake, not quite disguised gasp. The fearful wide eyes, quickened heartbeat, meek silence.
It was something different, not being the victim.
****************************************************
He can't hear anything quite to the magnification as he once did. The woman's power is beyond his reach now, almost all of his old powers are. Stolen from him with the disease they placed into his body. A crude, desperate attempt to stop him. The obstacle had only distracted him for a short time. He had immediately known he'd do anything and everything he could to regain his powers. They made him special and he wasn't ready to surrender them to anybody just yet.
Sitting pathetically in that filthy alley, like some addict, had been repulsing and appalling. This is what he had been resorted to. No home for sanctuary. He had only made it a few feet before folding up his sleeves, preparing himself. Certain it would work but still wondering how long to take effect. Would he immediately feel different, impervious?
The rush of power, familiarity? Or would he have to work at it? Like atrophied muscles when not used? Would it be more difficult, require more concentration? Or easier, since he'd already had them once and was only regaining access. If guesses were the best he could do, then it was just a moot point. The blood, while working wonders for a dead Maya, didn't necessarily mean he'd instantly be cured as well. Though the thought that the cheerleader's blood could revive the dead but not heal the sick was a cruel joke to be considered.
After all, it was just a theory that Mohinder had conceived. Due to the doctor's reaction, Sylar doubt Mohinder had actually tested it yet. Therefore, Maya. Besides, he couldn't really linger any longer. The appearance of a company agent assured that.
He's pleased when the can flies into his outstretched hand.
But try as he might, the others won't come. He still maintains his own ability but everything else, all the power he's acquired, is gone. It is disappointing and frustrates him to no end, having to start over from practically nothing. That all this work had been in vain, his treadmill. He should be grateful, not being entirely bankrupt of powers. There's a little regret, resentment, a little anger but nothing more worth mentioning. So many negative emotions, it hardly seemed healthy.
He can hardly believe himself as the words escape his mouth. Corny, overused, laughable. It's here that he realizes he may just be his very own critic and not for the better. He imagines it to be something a hero would say as he rushes into to save the day. Which admittedly, he did do- save the girl. Save the cheerleader, save the world. He wonders if it still applies or is just a one-shot deal.
He is absolutely certain that she'll never thank him. Not only from her standoffish behavior, outrage at learning her precious father was working with the person she hated the most, right now. It wasn't her voice that marked 'betrayed' or the confusion written across her face. The way she angled her body, nearly ripped her arms out of their sockets in an attempt to avoid her father. The tears barely held back by anger. She's not ready to forgive or forget any time soon, hasn't been injured in a way that the body could compensate for.
It doesn't help that they've invaded this- moment. Just when she was truly connecting with another person, especially a person with powers, when the troubled cheerleader might actually have begun to accept it, it disappeared. Stephen Canfield was now beyond Claire's ability to help him, though she could have succeeded had they not interfered. It's this point where he realizes Claire needed this much more than any of them; in her effort to help another human being, she had forgotten her own pain. If only momentarily, for their appearance more than assured its magnification.
A single touch of the hand provided him with this insight. And the other million memories, emotions to accompany it as well.
Loneliness every time he walked out the door, briefcase in hand. A gratefulness whenever he walked back through, glasses gleaming, arms thrown open just for her. Uncertainty when Sandra (he remembers meeting her) studies Claire but won't force her daughter to talk; a daughter that doesn't know what words to say or even how to form them. Annoyance but affection for the brother even while he made silly threats.
Fear in knowing she is different from the others; this separation from what she defines as her family, the ones without powers but still never left. Fear when she realizes daddy was right, there are people in the world who want to hurt her. Comfort easily sought in the embrace of an army of bears. Anger. Disappointment. Betrayal. Defeat. Happiness. Joy. Peace. Confusion. Exhaustion. Pain. Surprise. Affection. Defensive. Shock. Guilt.
So many. It amazes him to even think of the broad spectrum of human emotions that a person can be capable of. As a sort of misanthrope in his younger years, Sylar or Gabriel had never considered another person's emotions before. Polite, yes, to a fault. But the two were undeniably very non-similar. Virginia Gray had raised him well.
****************************************************
For a devastatingly eternal moment, Lyle considered Claire. Deeply. His sister, yes. Even if not by birth. But the abrupt revelation was disturbing; this new sudden light allowed him to view her in something he never would have suspected. It went far beyond the name calling or insults they traded daily, the bickering mom often silenced.
Unfortunately, with this new knowledge and confusion, Lyle didn't quite know what to do except do what he once did when he had ruined Lily Pad, the flowered bear. For he knew Claire's wrath was something he absolutely feared. Run.
Lyle bolted from the room, narrowly avoiding having hit the wall. The kitchen was the nearest place to reach and luckily, had an island. Two entrances and exits. She could not cover both. He knew, of course, that this meant he was also in a dilemma but this didn't worry him as much. Weight for weight, he could take her if needed. It's not like she'd be hurt, really. He had seen the video, watched two attempts at . . . suicide? Murder? What do you call that?
If it wasn't for Claire's initial reaction, he might have believed her. Yet he knew the desperation in her behavior, in her hurried explanation, that it was all a lie. A lie.
Claire skidded to the other side, regarding him with a mix of fear and predatory intellect. Lyle couldn't get away, not with this hovering in the air between them. His eyes jumped side to side, wondering what to do. Body language conveying the fact he was distressed and undecided in what to do. Caged. She wished she could honestly say she was concerned and wanted to allay his fears and uncertainties but the truth is, she couldn't. At the moment, Claire was just as afraid as he was, if for an entirely different reason.
Lyle didn't understand what he had seen and after stapling her, watching it for himself, had reached some unknown conclusion. If she wasn't this way herself, Clare knew she would have a similar reaction. Frankly, she was afraid of what he would do with this information. If she didn't explain and he made some premature decision, everything could be ruined. It was one of the things she feared most.
"Lyle," Claire breathed out shallowly, heart thumping irregularly. Sadly, this happened to be the moment Lyle had been waiting for. Subconsciously, she had taken a more demure stand, not as ready to run. She also had not noticed Lyle reaching behind him as he seemingly backed up. The fact that he had launched something white through the air and aimed at her, did.
On instinct alone, Claire ducked, a clang resounding as the object pounded into the floor. She glanced down, registering Lyle had moved but still curious. As Claire chased after him, she couldn't help but be a little pleased. A towel dispenser. If he had truly wanted to hurt her, he would have chosen a weapon that could do more damage. A knife or bowl, something breakable. He had, after all, seen the video and now knew it to be true. Yet he hadn't. Instead, it was only a distraction to aid in his escape.
Squeezing through the door, Claire regretted her shoe choice. Heels weren't quite the best thing to run in. "Lyle, give it to me!" He glances back, wary to keep a distance between them, despite her slow activity. "Now! Get back here, Lyle!" She's shouting and doesn't really care if she's disturbing the neighbors. They can complain to her mom later. Right now, she needs to drag Lyle back into the house.
"Zach, don't let him get away!" She signals to Lyle. Zach skids his feet on the pavement, instantly obeying the order. He jumps off, casting the bike to the side. They almost have Lyle cornered.
She falls to the ground, having failed spectacularly at her tackle. Zach inquires if she's okay but she doesn't answer. She chooses to pursue Lyle instead, brushing herself off. "Hey!" Zach's raised octave catches her attention and just a second too late she understands. Zach brushes against the door, grunting, hands slammed against the window.
Claire joins him, growling, slapping her hands against the glass.
"Why would you want to kill him again?" Zach finally asks.
It's what she loves about him. Humorous, playful, loyal, follows his own heart, full of advice. Zach is uniquely unaffected by the world, knowing what he wants and not letting anybody's actions or opinions hinder him. She's learned to depend on him and his goodness, believing she could be more.
"Because he found the tape and then he stapled me!" Claire exclaims, throwing Lyle a dirty look. From this, Lyle knows he's dead.
"Help! Somebody help me! My sister's a freak!" He stares at her while saying this. She's pretty sure he half means to annoy and aggravate her. For now, he's protected by a glass pane and . . . what, metal? It doesn't miss her attention that he uses the exact same word she considers herself. Freak.
In response, she pounds against the window again. Zach's eyes are wide.
***************************************************
It's been three hours and in this time, they've shouted, threatened, and attempted bribery. Even seeking out the spare keys had been a waste of time. It certainly had been disappointing when Claire ran into the house only to come back out two minutes later. Glaring at him seemed to do the trick. Lyle brought out the keys from his pocket, waving them tauntingly.
Her fingers are threaded through her hair, feeling like she's been stuck in math with a test she's never studied for. Like she's missing something but can't figure out what. Completely devastated.
Zach is jumping on the bumper of the car, shaking it relentlessly. He has been for the last five minutes. She knows; she's checked. He's trying the other route, to frighten Lyle out of the car. So far, it's not working. "Come on! You can't stay in there forever!" Zach shouts, reminding the younger male.
He stops, resuming his position on the passenger side. Cornered.
"Would you just give me the damn tape?" Exhaustion is in her voice, expression.
Lyle licks his lips, thinking of a brilliant solution/threat. "I'm gonna put this on youtube. Make like a million bucks," he gloats wildly. At this part, a tear leaks down from her right eye. He would do that to her? Treat her like a circus animal doing a clever trick?
"Youtube's free, you idiot." Zach voices.
Claire's tired and she doesn't know how far longer this can go on. "You're not helping," she calls softly to Zach. Head is on her hand again. She knows they can hear the emotion in her voice, swelling in her throat. Closing her eyes momentarily, she wishes she wasn't so weak. Wishes they never made the videotape.
But she has to explain what this is. "Lyle, no one can see what's on that tape." She has to explain what makes it so important.
He can't even look at her. The entire time, he's kept his eyes off her as much as possible. Avoided eye contact of any kind. "Are you an alien or something?" He gestures offhandedly to Zach "Is he an alien, too?"
"Yeah, yeah." Zach admits and Lyle turns, astounded at the confession. Claire knows that tone and he's about to do something really rash. Sure enough, it happens. "We're gonna anal probe you," Zach finishes as he pounds on the window.
Claire is firm when she commands, "Zach stop scaring him." He's enjoying this too much, she thinks. The attempted levity is beyond Lyle's ability to understand the very poor joke, all he can sense is mockery and threats. Lyle needs encouragement and answers. Things she doesn't have and can't give. She's not sure herself, really. Ironically, it's Zach the powerless one, that's helping her. His stable personality is beginning to center her, has let her at some point to accept who/what she is.
"I'm not coming out until mom and dad get home." Lyle decides aloud.
This is where she truly panics. Not that. Anything but that. "No. No, no, no, no." She doesn't care if she sounds like an addict in denial. "You cannot tell them." She can't stress that enough.
Maybe it's what she's said or how she's said the words but suddenly, his head is turning, shadowed in doubt and fear, uncertainty, distrust. "Lyle, please, they cannot find out about this." Her voice is now verging on desperation but that doesn't matter right now.
"Why not?"
"Don't you get it?" She responds. From his expression, it happens to be a useless question. "If they found out, mom and dad would . . . think it was a mistake to ever adopt me." She brushes back a strand of hair, amazed at herself for being able to verbalize the last thought.
Lyle looks down, realization flowing into him. He appears to be torn, maybe ashamed.
"We wouldn't be a family anymore." Her heart is an iceberg, slowly breaking apart. Lyle tries to speak, head bopping up before it dips back down, the words lost. He either doesn't know what to think or say.
The scene changes and Zach comes back into focus. He's been ignored for the last three or so minutes but doesn't really mind. He couldn't fathom what it must feel like to fear the rejection of family. Adopted or not. But Claire fears it like no other and how she had hidden this is beyond him. He's struck by the honesty and openness she's releasing. She usually tries to guard herself from the world.
"Please." Claire begs one last time, whispering.
Amazingly, the window rolls down. There's no real barrier between them now. Face to face, no distortion. He toys with the tape before handing it over. Claire accepts it, glancing down briefly. Her attention flies right back up to him, trying to read him. "Thank you."
"Whatever." Lyle proclaims, acting like it doesn't matter, pretending not to care. His aloof behavior is a relief.
Her arms are wrapping around him, holding him in a side hug. Head buried on one shoulder, arms linked around his neck. He doesn't return the embrace or the sentiment but he doesn't push her away either.
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His eyes are closed and he's near the point of not breathing at all, his body is so calm. He's waiting patiently, the perfect image of a virtue now lost among the newer generations. It's such a disappointment and disruption when he finds that most families no longer carry the traditions they themselves were taught. So much for the golden rule.
He's vaguely confused as to himself. Nature or nurture? He wants to know the truth, find out who he is or is meant to be. For now, all he knows is Angela holds quite a few answers to his questions. First, he has to punish them for their roles, make it clear there are consequences to their actions. They don't seem to be as aware of this as he is and it belongs to him to make this error corrected.
Noah must be penalized for his past actions. For his and Elle's conspiracy to ruin him. Elle. Now that was really somebody he would miss. Elle's sociopath tendencies went along quite well with his psychopathic habits. Their twisted view of the world allowed them to connect in a way they hadn't reached before. Both hiding who they were under false identities; the perfect housewife imitation, the good watchmaker.
Together, they had reached a middle ground of understanding and became a formidable force. In retrospect, it was distracting, being the voice of common sense. But Elle drove him wild with the lure of reckless abandonment, living for now. All plans were disregarded, usually because Elle couldn't stay on a single track. She was more suicidal than him, testing others when they could fully retaliate.
They learned that the hard way- the day of the eclipse. He supposes he should've realized why it seemed so easy. Two specials against Noah and Claire. Regeneration and company man. Almost instantly, things started spiraling out of control. The day of the eclipse was also a day of realizations and new beginnings.
Sylar and Elle connected once again, in a way that had been denied in their original pretentious meeting. Physical desire. The looming thought of death and desperation mutated into last chance offer. Seeking comfort in each other seemed completely natural, even if Arthur Petrelli manipulated the entire pairing.
He supposes he should have seen or sensed Elle's betrayal then, as his hands grasped hers, trailed down her body, brushed skin against skin, breathing together in nearly synchronized movements. Perhaps passion clouded the moment or the subconscious is truly a great mechanism that cannot be avoided. For he can see it now, as clearly as he can see the color of blood or the brightness of the sun.
He can also see her. The cheerleader. He hadn't known they had met before, and under less than agreeable circumstances. He's still figuring out the power he was offered, the past. He can touch a person but it's not like instant download. The memories come slowly, and only when he truly focuses on them. Sorting them out proves to be more difficult than he had anticipated. Especially when he encounters memories that includes him.
It's especially odd to see himself in their eyes. Disturbing even. It's why he tries to bypass them.
But he can see Claire's face amazingly clear, strained with determination, hands stained with glass and blood. Sense Elle's paralyzing fear. Maybe she shouldn't have attended Bennet's fake funeral after all. He knows that Claire's the reason Elle was even at Pinehurst. She's like the nail that's pierced a tire and brought two old friends together for a reunion. He can't help but feel her owes her a favor.
He swears he can feel her hand clenching his, electricity jumping between the two bodies.
Elle's never treated the cheerleader with anything but disdain and jealousy but never discouraged Claire's company on the journey. She certainly loathes the feeling of helplessness and the crackling of energy pouring out of her being, shocking only herself. Her powers have turned against her unexpectedly.
Yet Claire reaches for her hand, and they fit together perfectly. Claire takes the pain for her.
This act of compassion confuses him even as he observes the memory, over and over and over. She's effectively helping the person that aided in killing her father, tormented her, broke into her home, and ultimately, ends up shooting her. She's always confusing him, he realizes.
*****************************************************
He's standing close to the door, barely a centimeter away. Palms pressed against the wood, lightly tapping. "Please. I'm sorry I scared you. Just come out and talk to me. Please." This would go so much easier if they were face to face.
Even without the superheating, he would hear the cries behind the door. With the addition of superheating, he can hear every whisper, every sob. The ache in her heart, the sorrow in her tears. He's caused this but doesn't know how to fix it. He hadn't meant to hurt her. Only wanted to show her how special he was, already. That this was enough, that he was good enough.
Cheek against the door, he smiles softly. The familiar smell of wood, the repetition in this action. He'd done this before, as a child. He'd been eleven and had broken a snow globe. She'd been crushed. It took four months of skipping lunches and spare change to replace New Hampshire.
"Mom?"
Even now, in the sweater vest, wearing a costume that isn't him anymore, he finally feels like Gabriel. So desperate.
"I saw a vision of the future, and I'm gonna kill a lot of people. Tell me why I would do that." Where is the mother's comfort? Love? Understanding? The same treasured gazes she gave him as he entered the apartment? The nearly possessive way she smoothed his hair, held his chair, as a mother counting her newborn's toes.
It's with anger and frustration that he turns, bumping loudly against the door. Eyes closed, he slides down to a crouched position. "Mom." He calls again, unable to hide the sniffling as he wipes his eyes. Slams his head into the door, again and again. Negative, impatient, desperate emotion sneaks into his voice. "Mom?" His hand goes up, setting on his knee, to slow the growth of the forming headache.
The door opens and he jumps up by using the frame, hopeful. She emerges and at first, won't look at him. From the way her head is turned, he can clearly view the damage he's unintentionally done. A cut on her cheek, the area surrounding it is also discolored. After a moment, she glances up, looking at him.
"I'm leaving," she announces.
He's gone still, stunned. She continues, much to his dismay. "And when I get back, I expect you to be gone."
She ducks her head as she passes by him. And his face is contorted in puzzlement and a blooming sense of fear and wrongness. "Don't say that, mom. It's me. It's Gabriel," he insists.
There's a hand, accusing finger between them. "You're not Gabriel. You're damned, and I want you out of my house." He closes his eyes, reaching for her. Being damned isn't new. She's damned the schoolgirls for showing their knees, or too much arm. Alarm rises when his touch does nothing.
Usually she breaks down and sobs into his sweater or just stops fighting. But she's backing away, nearly curled into a defensive abused-frequently pose.
"Let go!" She cries. "Get away from me!"
"Mom, calm down."
"Get away!"
"Calm down," he presses, voice rising. She's hysterical and in turn, he's becoming hysterical too.
She rips from his grasp. "I want my son. What did you do with my son? Give me back my boy." She's choked with emotion, voice cracking.
He's at last understanding. It's tearing her apart, this knowledge. He tries to reason, to plead with her. "Mom, please, it's me. It's me, Mom, please."
He can't even touch her, she moves back with every step forward he takes, thus prompting another step from him. She's blindly searching for a weapon, some object to hold between them. Unwilling to take her eyes off his form. His hands are around her frail wrists now, wrestling with her for control. "My Gabriel."
"Mom, stop it!"
"You're not! You're not!" She croaks repeatedly. "You're not!"
Her words have brought out denial in him. He is Gabriel.
"You're not! You're not!" She sobs, weakening, as she falls onto him.
It's not quite a hug as it's awkward. Close placement, to be exactly. As in a subway. When he draws away, spine bent with fear and horror in his eyes. She stares back. Slowly, she drags her eyes down. Embedded in her chest is the silver scissors, blood seeping through her blouse. Over her aged hands, dripping brightly. Dazed astonished written on her already ashen face, as she begins to fall.
Throbbing. Expectations. Hero-worship Friendship. Duty.
His eyes are drawn to the source, a relatively small Japanese man holding a sword, blade cutting through the air, toward him. "Yaah!" Is the battle cry.
He neglects the body of his mother slumping to the ground.
He catches the blade steadily, trapped in his left hand. "That heartbeat . . ." It's familiar. "You were in the loft. Why are you following me?" He demands.
The man is terrified, surely. Yet he answers as bravely as he can manage. "I must stop you." His voice shakes even as he replies.
"Then do it." He half orders, half dares. Forcefully draws the sword to his chest, bringing the man with it. He whimpers unintentionally.
"Do it! Kill me!" He growls.
They're struggling now. Maintaining his grip, the sword starts to frost before another layer is added. The man is trying to wrangle it away.
"You can't, you coward." He chastises the boxed glasses. He's not strong enough. He doesn't know whom he's more disgusted with: himself or this man. "Now I'm gonna have to kill you."
There is no alternative, no remaining choice. He's seen what has happened, what has been done, and can't be allowed to leave. Be allowed to live. Yet another man breaks through the door, throwing it open, scanning the scene. The stranger approaches quickly and the shorter man grasps his friend's shoulder as he bows his head, eyes tightly shut. They vanish in a moment, as if they were never there. At least he knows how they escaped him the first time. Teleportation.
On the rare occasions when he thinks back on this moment, he wishes the door had never opened.
*******************************************************
He knows the end result has changed, that one person had been granted mercy and forgiveness while another was damned. But the similarity in the situation isn't something he can easily ignore. Lied to about their origins, given false comforts and love, mistreated, taken advantage of, both outcasts searching for a place to belong. He remembers their conversation in the living room. She's said it herself; they're both looking for answers.
They're more alike than any of them.
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sorry. :) "army of bears" refers to my other heroes fanfic, boxes. i couldn't resist. lol. if you want, please go read. it would make me feel better. sadly, it's under a different name, abandoned theatre. and i cannot transfer it over. i apologize for this inconvenience.
and yes, i know the chasing around the house and paper towel incident never actually happened but c'mon people, there was a commercial break. anything could've happened in that time. i really only just extended the scene and made it my own.