Title: Beyond
Rating: PG for braaaaaaains.
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to NBC and Tim Kring, and I am too full of shockwow to think up a wittier way of putting that.
Character: Sylar.
Word Count: 308
Spoilers: 'How to Stop an Exploding Man' LIKE WOAH.
Summary: This was a power they did not know he had, though it was through their efforts that he'd acquired it.
Author's Notes: MY GOD, THAT EPISODE. And I went through about five summaries before I wrote one that was non-spoilery. Um, anyway. This fic does link to the title, I swear. At least, it does in my mind. But see above comment about shockwow and draw your own conclusions as to how reliable my mind is right now.

It was a skill he had learned when at the hands of his enemies. He wasn't sure if the irony was sweet or cutting—the former, he decided at last, was more appropriate, and he wished he could see their expressions when they realised their efforts to kill him had defeated themselves. Had they thought his mind was broken when they'd locked him in that cell? Had they thought he couldn't watch and learn and think? He had watched and learned and thought, and though it had taken weeks, he had added a new skill to his collection.

Removing the brain, feeling its matter slide over his fingers, smelling its scent of copper and beef, studying the minute twitches and creases and crimson-grey valleys, tasting—

That was only his way of speeding up the process.

Sylar could see the mechanisms.

Sylar could see how things worked.

Sylar could duplicate that.

Sylar had seen, in his bare, boxy cell at Primatech, the insect crawling. He had watched it. He had seen how it was both below him, both below—and so very far above. He had seen how its genetics let it heal severe wounds and regrow lost limbs. He had watched how its body allowed it to run at amazing speeds for its size. He had pondered the hardiness of the creature, how it could survive amounts of radiation that would quickly kill a human, how it was infamously difficult to kill.

It had been an education.

Now Sylar knelt in inches of filthy water, slumped against the wall, every breath tearing spasms of pain through the wound in his stomach. Footsteps echoed through the sewer grille—shouting—footsteps—the roar and tick of engines. There were people up there, and Sylar, he was both below him, both below—

And so very far above.

He was still alive.