And In My Best Behavior
(I am really just like him)
Sufjan Stevens: 'The Ballad of John Wayne Gacy'
A Heroes fan fiction by xahra99
The Company likes to pretend that Sylar's in Level Five because he has to be, but Sylar knows differently.
He sits on the bed, back facing the window at a vain attempt at privacy. He's used his telekinesis to destroy the recording equipment hidden in the walls of the room, but what he really needs is a curtain.
The cell is marginally more comfortable than Sylar's previous prison. The Company dim the lights once in a while, when they remember, and they've turned up the heating a couple of notches. Otherwise, it's just the same. Grey concrete walls and floor. Concrete slab that passes as a bed, with holes bored in the sides for restraints. White enamel sink and toilet. Perspex feeding slot.
There's nothing else except a series of scratches that begin on the right hand side of the room and move up towards the ceiling. They start off neatly and become more frenzied as they ascend the wall.
Sylar wonders how long it would take to mark solid concrete. He pushes the thought to the back of his mind.
He leans back and his fingers brush the concrete base of the bed.
The shock is electric and unpleasant. Sylar jerks his hand back, and it smacks painfully on the concrete surface of the bed. He raises his arm and watches as the bruise fades from purple to green and yellow before vanishing.
Many of the Company's guests have spent time in Sylar's cell, and they have not enjoyed their stay.
The room seems smaller and chillier to Sylar. He shivers and arranges himself carefully on the bed so the minimum of bare skin touches the concrete.
Bridget's ability is taking some getting used to.
Sylar's muscles are aching from the half-lotus by the time he hears the stab of Mrs. Petrelli's heels in the corridor outside. He turns round and lowers his feet to the ground just as she appears at the window. "Gabriel?"
Sylar slides from the bed and approaches the window. The corridor is raised above the level of the cells, but Sylar is still taller.
Mrs. Petrelli tilts her chin and looks Sylar in the eye. She raises her right hand and touches the glass. Her fingernails are the color of red wine.
"I want to speak to you."
Sylar mirrors her gesture. The tips of their fingers press against either side of the glass. "I'm not busy."
Mrs. Petrelli smiles at him and lowers her hand. She walks over to the door and punches in a code that Sylar would attempt to memorize if he couldn't rip the door off its hinges with a gesture. "Come and walk with me."
The door hisses open. The corridor outside is as institutionally bare as Sylar remembers. He hesitates for a moment before climbing up the steps that separate the cell from the hallway. The concrete floor is cold on his bare feet.
Mrs. Petrelli looks Sylar up and down. She seems disappointed. "We'll have to get you some more clothes."
Sylar can't argue. His reflection in the cell window is prison-pale, a blend of asylum inmate and male nurse. Mrs. Petrelli's mirror image is pristine. She's immaculately turned out in a tweed suit and three-inch heels that seem at odds with the rest of her clothes. The outfit is topped by a modest beehive, diamond studs and a heavy diamond wedding ring on her left hand. She touches Sylar's arm. The metal of the ring is cold against his skin. "Follow me," she says, then turns and walks off down the corridor.
Sylar follows her past several empty cells. The last one is occupied by Flint, his bullet-shaped head barely visible through smoke-stained glass. He scowls as Sylar walks by and his hands glow incandescently. A volley of flames licks against the window.
Sylar pauses. He tilts his head and studies Flint intently through the glass. If the pyrokinetic knew how much Sylar craved his power, he wouldn't dare taunt him. Sylar lost Ted Sprague's abilities after Kirby Plaza. He misses fire.
Flint paces like an animal at the zoo. He turns to face them both as Sylar places one hand against the smoke-stained glass. His forehead creases uncomprehendingly.
Mrs. Petrelli takes a few quick steps back. She grips Sylar's elbow firmly with one hand and says "Keep up, dear."
Sylar tears his gaze away from Flint. After a long moment he lets his hand slip from the glass. He follows. Flint's footsteps echo down the corridor as he resumes his pacing. Sylar scowls.
He's almost wiped the scowl from his face by the time Mrs. Petrelli opens a door at the end of the corridor and ushers him in.
The room is a cross between an office and an old-fashioned library. It's large, with frosted windows and an unmistakable air of luxury. It's late evening and the room is almost completely dark. Mrs. Petrelli doesn't bother to turn on the lights. Instead she makes her way easily to the centre of the room and flicks on a leaded desk lamp. The lamp creates a small island of amber light.
The desk in its centre is heavy and cluttered with small objects; a glove, a bronze statue, a photo frame, a pile of leather bound books. The chair behind it is upholstered in red leather and it's been cleaned since Sylar left Bob Bishop's decapitated corpse in it. Nothing else has changed.
Mrs. Petrelli seats herself in the chair with no sign of distaste. She clasps her hands under her chin. She gestures at the smaller and less impressive chair opposite. "Please, sit down."
Sylar hesitates for a second before he pulls the chair out and settles down. He gets a flash of vague apprehension as he sits down, but it's no stronger than that of a subordinate fearing a reprimand, and he ignores it.
Mrs. Petrelli looks archly at him over her steepled hands. "You've had a lot of time to think, all alone in that cell," she says, "Did you ever wonder why I gave you Bridget's powers?"
Sylar searches for a family resemblance in her face. He finds none, save for dark hair and a certain ruthlessness that may or may not be hereditary. "I think you're trying to force me to consider the consequences of my actions."
Mrs. Petrelli inclines her head. Her eyes are bright and birdlike. She pauses and waits for more.
"You gave her me because you thought it would make me trust you," he adds, and watches her closely.
"Correct."
"I should be careful, then, if that's how you treat your employees," Sylar says casually. He runs a hand over the corner of the desk, but picks up no traces of Bob's recent and bloody death.
"You're not an employee." Mrs. Petrelli says calmly. She reaches out and clasps his hand with a thin-lipped smile. "You're family. Petrellis are like elephants, Gabriel. We never forget, but we do forgive."
She smiles again, as if at a private joke. "Nobody's beyond redemption."
"Even me?"
"Even me," she says. But for the tone, Sylar would have thought that she was repeating him.
"It's not easy."
"I'm on your side," she tells him, tightening her grip on his hand. Her hand is much smaller than his. It makes Sylar feel protective, and not for the first time. There's a trace of guilt in there, somewhere, for his real mother and her snowstorms and her Hummel figurines. The guilt is weak, and soon extinguished.
"Which side is that?" he needles.
"Only you know that, dear," she says, "But I hope it's ours."
To his surprise, Sylar does not dismiss the matter out of hand. He likes the woman, he genuinely does. He's well aware that she's using him, and he's fine with that, up to a point. He'd think less of her if she wasn't.
But he's on his own side, of course. Just like everybody else.
He's just more honest about it.
Mrs. Petrelli dismisses his silence with a wave of her hand. Diamonds gleam in the amber light. "Don't you have any questions about your family?" Sylar has learned that she is a master of saying more by the tone of her voice than she does with her words, and the way she pronounces 'family' implies a larger unit.
He bites.
"What family?"
Mrs. Petrelli smiles indulgently. "Your brothers. Peter and Nathan. I believe you've met," she adds ironically.
Sylar blinks. He prides himself on never showing surprise about anything, but he must have slipped for a second because she smiles again and touches his cheek. She can't seem to stop touching him, as if she thinks he'll disappear. It's the first sign of genuine emotion she's displayed.
"Nathan can fly."
Sylar has a vague memory of a man who picked Peter from Kirby Plaza and vanished into the sky with him. Of an explosion very far away; of the brightness and sudden heat. But he'd been in no condition to get a good look at his face, and he might have been mistaken.
He grunts.
Mrs. Petrelli takes no notice of his lack of enthusiasm. 'And you must know Peter." Although she's mentioned both her sons as disappointments, Sylar detects a flicker of pride in her voice. "He absorbs abilities."
"I killed him." Sylar says.
"I know you did." There's no condemnation in her gaze. "It didn't take. But that's all in the past. You're better now. You can change."
Sylar keeps his doubts to himself. "Maybe."
"Of course you can. We're your people now." Mrs. Petrelli doesn't even blink.
Sylar considers. He's never had people. Back when he had a family, he'd always thought he was better. He'd known he was better. He'd been right. But he may not be so special in this new family, and he isn't sure he likes it.
"I'm not quite sure Peter will see things your way." Murder tends to have that effect.
Mrs. Petrelli sniffs, as if what Peter wants isn't the least important. "Peter will come to accept you," she says, but has the grace to add "Eventually," to her statement.
Sylar is not so sure. From a Darwinian perspective, his new family makes perfect sense. From a purely human viewpoint, he has to wonder whether this might not make Christmas dinners rather awkward.
"Peter might have other ideas," he points out.
"That'll be nothing new." Mrs. Petrelli says with maternal disdain. "He has a lot of ideas, and they rarely come to anything."
"They both have powers, " Sylar says, "Do you?"
Mrs. Petrelli shows no sign of unease. "Yes."
Her admission does not surprise him. So far Mrs. Petrelli has demonstrated no evidence of powers, but Sylar's certain she's not human. "What can you do?"
She shakes her head. "I don't think you need to know that now."
"I could find out." Sylar challenges.
Mrs. Petrelli raises one eyebrow and stares him down. "Yes. You could."
They both glare at each other. A tree taps on the window and the hands of the mahogany clock over the mantelpiece drag themselves along. Sylar has the patience of a snake and a scowl that could frighten small children, but Mrs. Petrelli is the daughter and mother of politicians, and apparently does not need to blink.
Sylar drops his gaze first.
Mrs. Petrelli lets go of his hand and allows herself another smile. The diamonds of her wedding ring glitter as she moves, and Sylar changes to another subject.
"My father?" he asks. "Was he special too?"
Mrs. Petrelli shakes her head. A look of infinite sadness passes over her face. ""I can't tell you that now. You're not ready."
The books piled up by Mrs. Petrelli's elbow flick open. Their pages ripple in the still air. Sylar's voice is reasonable and very quiet, with just a hint of menace because he's fed up with playing games. "Are you going to answer any of my questions?"
Mrs. Petrelli is unimpressed. "I will tell you when you're ready. You're here because you want to be, dear. I at least have no illusions about that. You must trust us. Trust me," she adds quickly as Sylar bristles.
"Why?"
"We're family."
Sylar does not believe for a second that anything as frail as a biological connection would prevent Mrs. Petrelli from sacrificing him if necessary. Still, he finds it hard to believe that she presents a tangible threat, despite past history. He could walk out of the Company right now, and she couldn't do a thing about it. He'd probably never be found, unless he wanted to be.
But where would the fun be in that?
"Okay," he tells her. I'll wait. I'll...trust you." He gives the word the faintest of ironic spins. "For now."
Mrs. Petrelli nods as if it is no more and no less than she has expected. She reaches under the desk and flicks a switch that illuminates the rest of the room, breaking the fragile mood of intimacy. Sylar realizes that this interview is over.
Tiny crumbs of information, he thinks as he walks to the door. It's the Company's style.
Mrs. Petrelli holds the door open for him and walks him back to his cell. Flint has stopped throwing flames at the wall. He's sprawled on his bed with one arm flung over his face against the neon lights.
Someday, Sylar thinks at him. He has no problem reconciling Flint's slaughter with the whole redemption thing. The Company seems to have no problem killing people who deserve it.
They'd had no problems killing him, for sure.
This cheerful thought sustains him back down the steps and into his cell, which hasn't got any more interesting in the short time Sylar's been away.
He settles down to wait for a mission, for Bennet, for something more interesting to happen, and he doesn't have to wait long.
He senses Peter just before a soft pop of imploded air heralds his arrival.
"Peter?"
Peter catches Sylar by the throat and slams him against the concrete like he weighs nothing.
Sylar recognizes the predatory look in Peter's eyes all too well. "What are you doing?" he grunts. He's slightly disappointed in his brother. Now that they're related, Sylar would expect at least an introduction before any attempt on his life.
"I went to the future. The world's end." Peter spits. "I took your abilities so I could understand how to stop it."
"You took my ability," Sylar says softly, outwardly calm despite the rapidly diminishing levels of oxygen in his bloodstream. "You have the hunger. You're like me."
He's never verbalized his desire to kill before, and he isn't sure he likes it. It feels like an excuse.
"I will never let myself become you," Peter hisses.
"You already are." Sylar tells him. He adds "Brother," as an afterthought. As the words leave his lips he realizes that Peter doesn't know, can't know, that he's made a mistake-
Peter snaps his neck, and then there's nothing.