A/N: Yes, I've been browsing the Hot Topic site and watching NCIS, thus inspiring Alice's wardrobe. I actually had the inspiration for it yesterday, though the thought of blood manipulating on Heroes has been in my mind for awhile. I went through thoughts of a blood manipulator in the Carnival, meeting Peter and Emma, becoming friends with Gretchen, but all roads seemed to lead to our favorite villain. Blood Manipulation is not, I repeat not, like what our beloved Puppet Master can do. While she can make people do what she wants, that is not the extent of her power. You will be seeing more of her power, if and when I continue. Yes, that was an if. I'm doing a lot right now, so it depends on the amount of support and readers (mostly reviewers, but stalkers do count). Let me say here and now that the title of this fic was inspired by a Mentalist fic by the name of 30 Shades of Red. If you like The Mentalist, I suggest reading it.
Disclaimer: I only own the storyline and Alice. I do not own Abby Sciuto, NCIS, Heroes, Sylar, or even a Jay bird whom to kill. In fact, if I owned a bird, I would never kill it. Seriously, I once took care of a baby Hummingbird when it fell out of a tree. If I tried to kill any bird, I would get flashes of the wittle guy (whom I oddly name Frank) and cry.
Spoilers: None yet.
Timeline: I'm not quite sure yet, I suppose some time after the Sythan fiasco but it's a little bit hard to determine. I'll be working on that.
Warnings: Mentions of death and vampirism. Oh, yes. I said vampirism. Bow before my awesome Spencer Reid-like words. Boooooow!
Pairings: Some of you may know I'm taking a break from slash pairings, that doesn't mean we won't be getting some Peter and Sylar interaction. I'll be having fun with that, don't you worry. I may do some Pemma, maybe. I'm still not sure where I stand on that situation.
Genre: The train of the story is going to be pretty serious, but I'm going to try and get some humor and maybe a bit of parody in here. I firmly believe that one needs a balanced food pyramid when reading a fanfic or, really, any story. The humor is your meat(or soy protein, for you vegetarians), the drama and angst your veggies. You're always supposed to have more veggies, for they're good for you. The meat comes in smaller but it's just as important.
Her name was Alice Gleenway, and she was the most curious thing he ever set his eyes upon. He'd been stalking her the past few weeks, watching her closely, and found that she hid her ability well under a pretense of being weird in general. People, shocked by her appearance, tended to stay away from her. And he would see her, occasionally, smirk as people hesitated before approaching her.
She seemed to alternate between a classic…'emo' look (really, it just reminded him of Abby Sciuto from NCIS, occasionally a little brighter in clothing and spontaneous in personality), and just random graphic tee's, outrageous hairstyles with equally outrageous hair clips, with bright make-up that made him think she was cosplaying or something. And yet, he saw a rather sadistic side of her, the side that held that power.
She manipulated blood. And, as clichéd as it sounded, there was something dark and enticing about it. It wasn't just making a person do as she wished, it was taking their life and giving to another—or herself—but it called for the same thing his own power begged for. Death. The things she could do, though, were extraordinary. He'd seen her freeze blood, boil it, drink it, float it in the air, anything one could think of and she'd tried it and, more often than not, succeeded.
But she had a time limit. Too long without a kill and she'd turn—well, for lack of a better word—mad, with subtle mutters and twitches, less subtle gleams in her eyes. She needed the death more than he did, and that was what made him hesitate for taking the power as his own. No doubt it was a great power, one he would relish in, but he already knew the pain of dealing with his own Hunger. Could he go deeper and take this girl's Hunger as well? He had no doubt that he could handle it better than her—she was just a teen, after all—but how long before the strain of both Hunger's diminished what little morals he had left?
Sure, he knew that he wasn't a good guy; he knew he was already sadistic and mad with the deep, crimson red blood staining his hands. But he wasn't entirely insane, not yet. And, if he had any say in it, he'd never be so. So he decided to wait, watch her and this ability. Yet he knew he couldn't wait forever, because below the cheerful appearance she gave to her few friends and family, something was waiting and screaming for freedom. He knew it, he saw, he lived it before. He understood the signs.
Alice's first kill was a human. And 'accidental' heart attack in a crowded mall. But he'd looked up medical records and stole some footage from the security cameras. The man who'd died, an old man in a wheelchair and therefore nothing special, had no blood in his system. His heart was shriveled up like the prunes he ate. The only trace of blood was in the inner corners of his eyes, and inside his ears. To relieve the media, they simply said he had a heart attack.
But in the footage, he'd seen Alice lurch forward and roll her eyes back in her head, her right hand twitching. A few seconds later, the man fell out of his wheelchair, dead. And Alice was fine after that, not even woozy from her attack. He wasn't sure how the blood transfer had worked, but it did.
The first time he'd seen her kill, it was a small Jay bird in the yard. The poor little birdie had hit the window while she was outside, and fell to the ground in a daze. Alice had been startled at first, rung her hand nervously in black gauze-like skirt. As her gaze reached the bird, her head tilted to the side and a kind smile swept across her face. She ran over to the bird, slowing a few feet away so not to startle it, and scooped it up gingerly in her hands. She cooed down at it, rubbing its head with her finger.
Her eyes drifted away from the bird, and she sighed. He watched, fascinated, as her hands tightened slowly around the bird. Her eyes snapped back to the bird, an anger and fire in them that nearly startled him. Her hands now held the bird in a vice-like grip, and he heard the crunches and cracks of bones. Blood began to seep between her fingers and, oddly enough, into her skin. Her watched as the crimson disappeared into the ivory, a mixture of disgust and awe tingling in his gut.
Finally, a loud crack came from the bird and she dropped it. She stood up, wiping clean hands on her skirt, and tilted her head at the bird on the ground. Gingerly, she lifted her foot and kicked it away.
Sylar, for the first time in a long time, had nightmares that night. Nightmares about hands, clutching him tightly until his neck broke, and his blood seeping into the skin, fueling the body-less hands even more.