The Jailbird Life (or Lack Thereof)
Basically, this is a bunch of short scenes I wrote about Sylar finding new ways to entertain himself and to annoy the Bennet and Petrelli families, despite being in jail. He comes and goes as he pleases because there is no prison security system that's strong enough to contain him that he hasn't already broken. But at the end of the day, he still goes back because he promised to be a good boy. Sort of.
This is an ongoing WIP, it updates whenever.
This is also largely inspired by Texts From Primatech.
All for fun, no copyright infringement intended. Heroes belongs to Tim Kring.
As far as prison goes, it's a fucking 5-star hotel. Considering how easy it is for Sylar to break out and leave the place a smoking hole in the ground, he did have to concede that Primatech, or whatever they were calling themselves now, let him have his creature comforts like a shower, his workbench and a bookshelf in his cell. At least he'd have something to do other than sleep or finding new ways to break the security systems out of boredom.
Of course, throughout the whole time of working out the details, he had been sulking in the corner glaring at the lot of them while Noah Bennet pointedly had his gun on the table with the business end aimed right at Sylar's head. He really didn't want to be there, but after the events at Central Park, Peter threatened to have Parkman put him a coma again if he didn't come along nicely to Primatech. Sylar gave Peter his best death glare, scowled, and followed him into the Primatech facility while mentally plotting new ways to make their lives hell. Moreover, he didn't even get to eat, damn it. Those food stalls in the carnival had looked so good, too.
Bennet had shot him in the head the minute Sylar walked into the conference room. "And hello to you, Noah," Sylar said as he got up and spat the bullet out, making a mental note to put Bennet right at the top of his shit list. He then looked down on the floor with a frown. "I don't recall losing that much blood from a head shot."
Claire, who was sitting beside her father, just rubbed the bridge of her nose in irritation. "I don't know why I have to be here," she complained.
"Well that makes two of us," Sylar muttered as she flipped him off and he slunk down to the armchair farthest from everyone else and the proceedings of working out how he was going to stay locked up began. When it reached into its second hour of bickering, he couldn't deal with it anymore. He telekinetically pinned everyone's heads to the table.
"I don't give a damn about all this, just give me my workbench and a bookshelf," Sylar said with a deeply annoyed tone in his voice. "I don't have to be here for all this." He then released his hold on them as he skulked out of the conference room. Dumbasses.