Strings
I stand inside the hollow, decomposing building, looking back at the track that's led me here.
What was it, exactly?
Maybe that scent, the one I couldn't help but detect - an exclusive aroma constructed for my senses alone.
Maybe pure instinct.
Maybe destiny.
I watch my shadow, gracing the floor with its singular presence, twisting and mutating under the flickering of – annoying – unsteady florescent lights, almost ready to die out.
Lights still on but nobody's home.
Looks like I'm late for the party. What a shame.
Been a while since I've been to one – people keep forgetting to send me invitations for some reason.
How rude.
There's a light fluctuation in the air – I stop breathing, coat myself in silence – no, not a fluctuation.
A sound.
So I'm not alone here after all.
I listen, make no noise of my own. Follow it to the source.
There.
Somebody left a treat for me. How considerate. Must be Halloween.
It's so nice to see a familiar face.
"Mr. Bennet," I call out to him. "Long time no see."
He freezes.
He knows running is futile – the same goes for fighting back.
Little fly caught in the web – now there's an ability I'd like to try out. Too bad Spiderman isn't real. Or if he is, I haven't found him yet.
"You're not leaving, are you? We really ought to catch up." He turns around slowly, and I close the distance between us, greeting him with my most pleasant smile. "I think I missed you."
His face is composed with his usual fake calm – like putting a synthetic curtain over a storm: it doesn't choke it, only makes it mute – and silent fear is even better than the shrill, scream-laden kind.
Haven't you ever watched a good horror movie?
"I'm afraid I don't quite share the sentiment, Gabriel."
Oh.
Ouch.
I do have feelings, you know.
"I prefer Sylar," I remind him. "I'm sure you remember."
He doesn't argue further – looks tired, worn thin - draws a succinct breath. As if this is a courtesy call.
"Just get it over with."
So determined, fatalistic. Playing his part to perfection.
That's good. I like playing.
How about playing dumb, for a start?
"Get what over with?"
But he enjoys a different brand of games. And for some reason, he doesn't like being the game piece.
Funny, that. He's always been such a good toy soldier.
"Killing me, I imagine."
And the words are clearly defined, painted in frozen, sharp defiance - even if all they actually mean is acceptance.
As if it's somehow better, stronger, more noble to beg for your death instead of your life.
How typical.
He used to be more fun in the good old days. Taunting behind thick glass, relishing the power, the absolute control.
Seems so long ago now. But not long at all.
"Why would I do that? You're not a threat to me."
Oh, he hates that.
The helplessness, vulnerability – it used to be foreign to him, something to observe, dissect… Now it's infected him. It's everywhere. Under his skin, in his blood – so human. Flawed by definition.
He needs something to hold on to. Is desperately looking for it. A little island of stability amidst the violent currents of chaos.
There isn't any, of course.
Worldly balance and I… we just can't seem to get along.
Well, it's not my fault I am.
"Actually," I begin, musingly, "no one is." And really, it's almost boring these days – not a single challenge in sight. They're all so small, simple, scared.
What does God do when he gets bored?
Creates plagues? Orchestrates earthquakes? Finds Jobs to pick on?
Maybe I should ask him.
But – back to Mr. Bennet, still with his supposedly impenetrable mask on – does he actually believe that it makes a difference here?
Old habits die hard, I suppose.
"Not even," I pause, relishing the brief bout of quiet before the storm, "that little cheerleader of yours. What was her name again?" Pause again. Pretend to think. There it is. "Claire."
And that black fire lights up in his eyes – fury and fear and hate - all so raw.
It's quite the sight.
Almost… arousing, you could say.
"You-"
I press a finger to his lips, silencing him.
"She's alive." Terrified. "Isn't she."
It isn't a question, just an echo of a fleeting thought.
I know she is.
Because if she wasn't, he wouldn't be either. It's sweet, in a way.
Complete devotion.
In this broken world, precious few things are complete.
You get bits and pieces, smears of imperfection seeking, yearning to be whole, but this -
This is special.
I had some spare time for contemplation, after he so rudely expelled me from his home - I was a guest, after all, that's hardly what you'd call proper manners; I expected better from him – and I wondered… what would have happened if he had spent a little more time in that glass cage of his?
Now I know.
He would have torn himself apart.
You can strip everything away from him, peel it off piece by piece - leave nothing but a barren, charred, bleeding skeleton - and you'll still have that devotion – fanatical.
It's a blind spot in evolution – she's not even his, but it doesn't matter, because natural logic dies in the hands of humanity. It's silly, halts progress, but still admirable, I have to admit.
Like a damaged music box – sad, useless, pitiful. But it has a peculiar melody that you just can't ignore.
His is playing now - the shadow of creeping horror spilling across impassive features, burning him from the inside – only a small portion makes it through, but it's enough. More than enough.
I allow a small smile.
"Interesting."
He's used to living in lies – glass houses modeled just for him, built, brought down and replaced by necessity.
He doesn't appreciate lies for what they really are –
The better half of truths.
One of mankind's better inventions.
He's lost his lies and his glass houses, his suits - even the glasses are different. I miss the old ones. They had a certain… anachronistic charm.
"You lay one finger on her, you bastard, and I swear-"
I stop him. All it takes is a blink.
The threats are amusing in nature, but get tedious after a while. I've heard them all, more than once.
"Shhh," I chide. "There's nothing you can do."
He knows that.
It's beautiful, the lack of control – not just as a weapon - I have little use for those, nowadays. They're children's toys – messy crayons in the hands of a true master, nothing more. But as an experience, a pure sensation - it flows so freely, colored in entropy, fundamentally flawless -
It's art.
Every heartbeat thumping against my skull, a silent scream building up. It's static now – but it's heading for an explosion – slowly but surely - nothing he can hope to stop.
I can help him.
"Unless," I begin, making sure to get the pacing right - have him trapped by every word, every syllable, "we could come to an arrangement."
The latent panic is momentarily usurped by disbelief.
"What are you talking about?"
"See, I don't really need that ability of hers – it's nice, but… redundant."
His face makes another subtle shift.
Desperation built on the foundations of lost hope.
"What do you want?"
Straight to the point.
Business-like as ever. Such a pleasure to work with.
Not that it makes much of a difference what I ask him for. He'll give me anything.
And I'm not even on Santa's Nice List.
"Not much," I bring my hand to his face – he remains impressively immobile - trace a finger along his jawline, get a minimal flinch for my efforts. "Just…" I let the surrounding air push him back into the wall, advance towards him with measured slowness in direct opposition to his speeding pulse.
Timing. Always crucial to get the timing right.
I tilt my head to the right angle, slide my tongue over his lips - invade his mouth.
He offers no response – shell shock, maybe?
This should be enough to get the message across.
I draw back.
It takes me a moment to figure out exactly what I'm seeing.
Not horror, not disgust -
Silent, darkly disbelieving laughter.
I'm glad he can find humor in the situation.
"I'm not joking."
His face draws back to its natural blankness, but there's something condescending about it.
"I don't think you need my approval for that."
"You're right. I don't need it." But then, where would the fun be? "I want it."
"You can't make me want-"
Bad choice of words.
"There's nothing I can't do."
His reaction isn't quite the one I was looking for.
He looks… borderline amused.
"You really think so."
"Think?" I repeat the word – its taste is bleak, spoiled. "I know it. You're still in denial. It's understandable, really."
Reality can be hard to accept.
Good thing I don't have to accept it.
I shape it.
"I'm offering you a choice."
He doesn't answer, but a string of would-be statements run across his face, making discreet twists and turns – little visual aids to spice things up -
You're insane
Because I'm not part of the herd? Because I accept it for what it is: sheep, prey? Because I know what I want? Because I'm not afraid to take it?
Come on now.
Delusional
My vision is clearer than most. None of the usual blur – morality, 'right' and 'wrong', shame and guilt, all those self-inflicted filters humanity seems to think it can't do without. The only thing holding it back is itself.
A monster
Evolution doesn't make monsters. They're for children, hiding in metaphorical closets and under metaphorical beds. Evolution only advances the species. It's foolish to deny it.
An animal
Well.
Aren't we all.
Glad we've had this conversation.
A lot of things are left unsaid.
We don't need those trivialities.
Everything is clear here - no muddled areas, no confusion, no… misunderstandings.
It's refreshing.
Of course, he still doesn't seem to be terribly enthusiastic about the prospect.
That's too bad.
I should throw him a bone, since he's being so cooperative.
"Didn't you want to find out what makes me," I lean closer, sideways, breathe against his neck, then closer to his ear to share our little inside joke, "tick?"
He follows me with his gaze, hanging on the edge of forced apathy.
"I suppose I've lost interest."
His interest has always been slightly skewed – dictated by his superiors but not quite – not with his innocent little girl in the equation.
"I understand." I really do. "We all need to prioritize. So take a second and think," I close in until there's barely any space separating us, "about your priorities."
He doesn't take a second, less than a split – his mouth closes on mine – abruptness close to startling.
This is getting interesting.
It starts on the uncomfortable side – only our first date, after all – a strange mixture of dormant violence and scientific curiosity trying to be nothing at all –
Oh, but it doesn't work like that.
His tongue traveling across the back of my teeth, tickling, and nature begins to take the reins, heat accumulating and senses heightening -
So much bare, animalistic drive under that abnormally normal façade.
You just have to know where to look.
I break off the kiss – well, I don't think he'd appreciate my choice of wording, but terminology should be the least of his worries - press my hand to his groin.
He's getting hard – you've got to love physical realities, can't ignore them no matter how better, how above it you think you are.
I smile at him.
"I knew you could do it."
And there's so much I can do. He has no idea.
But he's about to find out.
We don't need clothes for this particular exercise in chaos theory. Or, technically speaking, just chaos.
I unbutton his shirt, not in a hurry, wouldn't want to reach the climax too soon – there's another one underneath, no buttons this time – I slice it open without a single hand movement; don't really need it but it's more visually impressive that way. I chuckle as he stifles a gasp – must've felt it a bit too close to the skin.
Oops.
My bad.
His expression is, what's the phrase – set in stone - breathing tightly controlled, like he's awaiting some sort of evaluation committee.
He still believes he can get through this intact.
Can't blame him. Wishful thinking - we're all occasionally prone to it.
Let's see if I can find his breaking point.
Everybody has one.
I start with his collarbone, nibbling - press my fingernail to his nipple, apply tongue next, then some teeth – a little bit of everything, just to be sure.
I attune myself to every noise, every breath, every heartbeat – it's not that easy, with him. Deceptive.
But there's only so much he can do before his body betrays him completely.
Surrender would be easier, but he's not one to be taking the easy way out.
He starts to make small sounds – struggling for steady breath through closed teeth – not a chance – a strangled groan when I finally locate the right spot, the right button to push.
Halfway just won't do. It's lazy. We can't have that.
See, this isn't some quick meaningless fuck – I'm just not that kind of guy.
I get the rest of the clothes out of the way, only takes a few seconds.
He's playing along but he's also fighting it, because that's what soldiers do, even when they're supposedly not soldiers anymore, and it's more than bare survival instinct because it's something else he's trying to preserve.
Pride, control, identity.
Soul.
But I can take it all away.
Just like that.
Not yet, though.
He's a challenge, and that makes him worth my while. Enough to keep alive.
I get on my knees – only a fool would see it as a sign of submission – it's just another form of control. A highly efficient one, actually.
And cryokinesis can be so very useful in the right hands.
Or mouth.
It's all a matter of time and dedication – soon I have every hair in his body standing, every nerve aching – begging for release. For me.
It's something he doesn't want to acknowledge. Wants to make it artificial, impersonal. A decades-old coping mechanism, superbly crafted.
Not that I have a particular problem with that, but that isn't what I'm here for.
This isn't anyone.
This is me.
And it's time for him to see that.
"Say my name."
He fixes his gaze on me, broadcasting disdain through half-lidded eyes.
"Do we really have to follow the cliché route?"
Cliché.
I'm almost hurt.
This is important.
"Think of it as tradition."
I'm sure he respects tradition, at least.
I wait – time is on my side, and it's not the only Rolling Stones song that answers that description.
After a significant pause, he decides to give in.
"Gabriel."
I grit my teeth – should really have seen that coming.
He's not an amateur. Far from it.
I can make his scream, wish he'd never existed – make the blood freeze in his veins, very literally, but -
Silly rabbit. Tricks are for kids.
This isn't about pain – pain doesn't last – so small and insignificant on the grand scale of things – just a passing sensation, might as well be a pin prick, a bee sting, a mosquito bite.
It's nothing.
And the last thing I am is insignificant.
He can disregard pain, repress loss.
But he'll never forget this.
And not a silent memory, either. Not something to be hidden and filed away for convenience' sake.
A scorch mark.
I'm branding his soul.
But somehow, when we start again, balance flies and crashes – the room is attempting to spin, and I don't mind letting it -
His teeth close over my skin, pressing hard, almost enough to breach it – interesting, very interesting - I hiss.
I don't have to feel pain.
I want to.
My head connects with the wall with a loud crack – a rush of blood – nearly boiling – tasting him, letting sensations loose, unchecked, going on overdrive -
I take a deep breath.
Alright.
Enough playing.
I look around for something suitable.
Table.
Not the most romantic of options.
It'll do.
I push him down on it.
Now, there are many alternatives to choose from – endless possibilities, bound only by imagination.
In the end, though, there's nothing quite like the personal touch.
His cheek is pressed against the surface, giving me a good view of the wince he fails to suppress when I thrust into him.
I find a rhythm – in a way, it finds me – and it's just right – well, depends on what your definition of 'right' is - because I sense everything.
One with the world. The path to enlightenment. I'm sure my old friend Mohinder would've found something to appreciate in that.
Philosophical and spiritual matters become less of an issue as time starts to grow thinner, constricting into milliseconds.
Rougher, faster -
He's close, right at the brink, desperately trying to avoid it and get it over with at the same time -
I don't let him.
"Say it."
He attempts to speak - the beginning is unintelligible, but he tries again - "Go to hell."
Cute.
Not quite what I was going for, though.
I release a chuckle – there's a hoarse note to it. "Not that."
"No?" he manages with remarkable coherency. "You should be more specific."
And here I thought we had a special understanding.
"You want me."
He closes his eyes, trying to shut reality down.
It doesn't work, by the look of things.
Too bad for him.
"Say it."
I push hard, give him a bit further incentive.
"I," the words contain more air than actual syllables, trapped in mid-gasp, "want you."
And it makes little difference how he completes the sentence in his head - 'dead' is the popular, crowd-pleasing choice, but I'm sure he can get more creative than that.
It doesn't matter.
Because he means it.
I can hear it – feel it.
Our desires are always out of our control.
"Now my name."
That's all I need. All I want.
"Which one?"
I close my eyes, breathe - he's being difficult.
"You know which one."
He keeps still, quiet. Nothing but the involuntary shuddering of his body beneath me.
No control left.
Only low breathing, rapid heartbeats, the sound of sweat and friction – a fly landing on a wall in the distance, a slight change in weather just around the corner…
I can wait all day.
Not so sure about him.
Finally, a choked whisper cracks the silent ambience.
"Sylar."
Yes.
"That wasn't so hard, now was it?"
Unlike certain other things.
It takes only a bare, token motion to bring this to a completion.
He lets go.
In this moment, he's all mine.
There's static in my head, jolting through me - weakness.
I stay on top of him for a few sparse moments. Don't really have anywhere better to be. Afterglow is a key element, after all. Can't go without it.
When equilibrium decides to return, I straighten up.
"Thank you, Mr. Bennet. This was…" oh, a lot of things, but I search for a word he'd appreciate, "educational."
He snorts.
I knew he'd like that.
"Are we done?" he inquires tonelessly. "I think we can skip the spooning."
I smirk, have to admire the fighting spirit.
"For now."
On my way out, I pick his glasses up.
"I think I'll keep these." A memento from our personal little party. "You don't mind, do you?"
No comment.
Oh well.
All that's left is to exit the stage -
"It's not your name."
I stop. Look over my shoulder. Dead silence beats in the background.
"What?"
"Sylar. It's not your name."
His voice is flat, offhand.
He's behind the glass again.
How is that possible? How does he do that?
"You have no idea what you're talking about."
"No," he admits blankly. "I probably don't."
But the words are different, lurking under the surface, and – I could slice his head open, rip his arms from their sockets, tear his spine out -
No.
No need for that.
I've already won.
Can't go disposing of all my toys too soon, now can I? Especially ones that turn out to be so… entertaining.
His mouth quirks – barely qualifies as a movement of molecules, really, but in some alternate dimension, it's a smirk.
"You're not as invincible as you think, Gabriel."
I draw my hands into fists – he just doesn't know where to stop.
"No. Not invincible."
He raises an eyebrow.
"I'm so much more."
He may not understand now – maybe it's beyond mere mortal understanding, but soon-
"You'll see."
I leave him with that promise.
But something is wrong – off.
I can't quite put my finger on it.
This is new.
Ambivalence.
Nothing wrong with that. Keeps you on your toes.
But –
Something in the back of my mind - leering, pestering, relentless.
A question.
What's his name?