The Ones Who Fall
"Young man, you're going to have to do a lot better than that."
If he hadn't already been trying his hardest, that cool, slightly amused tone would definitely have made Sylar want to murder Kensei.
As it was he was running out of fresh ideas. There were only so many ways he could kill a person (in this case, literally, a person), and Sylar was already down fifteen of them. He regretted the fact that Elle had managed to get away: her ability might have allowed him to be more...creative.
"You could have listened when I told you that wouldn't work, spared yourself the effort."
"Or maybe I could put you back where I found you," Sylar retorted, just as casually, "this time under a truckload of wet cement." He waited for anger that never came.
"You mistake willingness for complacency, Gabriel." Rummaging through the pocket of his blood-soaked jacket, Kensei turned out the remains of a packet of cigarettes which he had been buried with, then indicated that he was without a light. With an exaggerated snort of irritation, Sylar extended a hand to start a flame smoldering, realising that Kensei was not going to say anything more until he'd obliged.
Kensei did not smoke like a man who could not die: his mouth abysmally dark and insatiable, the crook of his wrist almost delicate.
"I want you to succeed, Gabriel, where the others failed." He allowed time for this to sink in, eyes obscured behind smoke.
"And when you have my power, when you are a match for him... I want you to go and kill Peter Petrelli."
The End
25 October 2007