The Gift
Once upon a time, Mohinder would tell her stories. Stories of gallant knights and evil witches, of princesses whose sole purpose is to be rescued by a noble prince , of goblins and ghouls and beasties that terrorise the good only to be struck down by the hero... So young and innocent and naive, to think that one day she'll have her prince and be rescued.
Right now, however, she wishes that those tales are true. She wants her Prince. She wants the warmth of a hand on her brow, the comfort of a father-figure murmuring words of a soothing quality. She wants to bask in the knowledge that there's someone coming to rescue her, to take her away from her prison. Those wants have been ripped from her, torn from her grasp as she is now bathed in darkness. Captive.
Not a sound permeates the tiny room she now calls her home, no light shines under the door to soothe her. There is nothing but the bare and rickety bed she sits on, refusing to leave its sanctuary, even as the stench of filth causes her to retch in disgust.
For days it's been like this; isolation. Every now and then, food will be shoved through the door, so quick and sharp that Molly has no time to react, stumbling through the inky black to find her scant meal. Something hastily shoved together is usual, as if her captor cares not for her health, but it gives her some small hope... at least she's not to die of starvation.
"You really should pay attention... you can never know what's hiding in the dark." The tone is full of black amusement, hushed, as if he is uttering some secret that is for Molly's ears only and oh... she shouldn't be so surprisedheart thumping madly in her chest as she scrambles into the corner of her pitiful bed, gathering the last semblance of her control. The heavy veneer that has been placed over her mind has obscured her powers, though his voice makes her shudder right down to the core of her soul. She should've known. Should've guessed.
Warm, rough hands on her shoulders and the tightening of a noose around her neck, ghostly, though is only the subtle nuances of Sylars' telekinesis, slow and methodical and yet so brief as it cuts off her precious supply of air, leaving her gasping for breath when it is loosened.
"Hush now." Sylar murmurs and then there's light, such bright light and Molly cringes away from it, flinching away from its harsh glare.
Sylar, however, seems entirely unaffected. He sits there, clad in black, utterly unashamed as he looks Molly up and down. He's curious, like a cat with a canary, wondering if its prey is willing to risk its life or whether it should just get it over with and have a snack.
"Mohinder will come for me." Molly says, unperturbed by the boogieman's predatory glances.
A pause, before Sylar's lips twitch up into a mocking smile. "Oh no... he's not going to come for you. You see, he doesn't even know that you're missing." A pause for effect, wherein that smile transforms into a predatory smirk. "I want to send him a gift. Something... special."
"Such as?" Defiant to the end, is Molly. And brave. Shame that she doesn't feel brave.
"Now that would be telling."
Something... something doesn't feel right. There's an uncomfortable itching in her chest, emanating at first from the surface, tickling over the flesh. It's easy to ignore for the first few moments, but it spreads, cancerous to the core, and she jerks as her breath hitches, heart missing a beat. It feels like the soft, vulnerable flesh on her chest is burning, turning to ash right there where she's sitting. Raising and dying right and an insane kind of panic rises up in Molly like a wave, the stench of her fear filling the room and the boogieman can only smile serenely.
His plan is a simple one. Why do the work when someone else can do it for you?
The burning sensation spreads, sinking into every pore and igniting fresh pain wherever its lingering fingers touch. Bathump. Her heartbeat loud in her ears, ominous as the organ in her chest quickens desperately, pumping adrenaline through her veins. Bathump. Pain that escalates, crescendo's up until she's screaming, tearing away at fragile clothing to scratch helplessly at her chest.
Bathump. Aided only by the subtle touch of Sylar's power, Molly leaves crescent moons on unmarked flesh, blood trickling in rivulets even as she digs in, tears away with ease at skin and muscle, great lumps of bloody flesh falling from her grip. BATHUMP. And yet the pain is still there, great sobs wracking her body and it's uncontrollable. It's monstrous. Such terror and what can she do to relieve it?
Hush, says the soothing voice in her head. It promises sweet solace in a place without pain or terror. Hush sweet Molly... for you must rip and tearrip and tear to stop the ache inside, and then it will all just melt away...
...And what can Molly do but listen?
Her fingers slip frantically against the sheer white bone, scratching away to find purchase. This organ in her chest beats with an overwhelming force, filling her ears with its terrible sound and there is a great, sickening crack as she snaps the ribs and pulls and tears at the sternum, broken bones hanging limp and smeared in crimson as the still-beating heart inside her chest aches utterly, dripping red, vital life-blood down her screaming form to pool on and stain the weathered mattress.
The wet sound of Molly's heart being torn out of her chest echoes in the small room. Lying there, with vital fluid dripping down those childish hands in a great stream and Sylar ... he's astounded, fascinated by the play of light on soft guts and white bone and cherry plasma. He finds the sight so very beautiful; not the twisted and dead form of Molly Walker... but the organ itself, red and soft and vulnerable.
Is this love, Sylar wonders, is this wet, still-beating organ the core to such emotion? He finds it hard to believe.
Come morning, Mohinder allows himself to worry. His rest the night before had been peaceful and such a thing is so very welcome these days. His mug of coffee is cupped between both hands to retain its subtle warmth and the geneticist sips at it, taking the time to allow the bitter taste and caffeine to prod him awake. It's rare to have such a quiet and unhurried morning such as this.
Almost as rare as receiving an anonymous gift.
The package is small and square, with no decoration. It's simply a box wrapped in brown paper, tied with plain twine, though Mohinder can't quite squash the feeling that this is supposed to be meaningful. Regardless, he merely rips away the covering, and with a wondering murmur of what could possibly be inside, plucks off the lid...
...His yell of horror is heard two blocks away.
Staring at what is undoubtedly a human heart, Mohinder tastes bile in his mouth. The organ is still wet, sitting in a small pool of blood, and the smell... Oh god the smell... is awful. It fills the room with its decaying stench and the blood on his hands causing him to gag. So preoccupied is he with his horror at this unwelcome gift, that he doesn't notice that the small organ isn't quite alone.
There, shoved all too neatly into the soft tissue of Molly's heart, is a slip of card no bigger than one you would use for acts of business. The script is flowing, but legible. It says, simply –
Dear Mohinder,
I was unable to send you my own heart, as you already have it, so as a gift from me, here is your adopted daughters instead.
Yours, Sylar.