Salvation
It wasn't supposed to happen that way.
He loved her and he wanted to make her happy – that's why he'd shown her his power.
She wanted him to be special.
He was special.
He'd made the water turn to snow for her and she'd danced in it delighted. The feeling of power was exhilarating and a glazed, half-crazed look came over his face as he whipped the snow into patterns, throwing the globes back and forth in a game. It was an impossible dance and he had complete control over it. He was so absorbed, hypnotised by the power, the concentration, revelling in the feeling that he was the one this was coming from, that he forgot who he was doing this for, until he heard the smash and scream. Bewildered concern flashed across his face as his mum fled from the room, blood dribbling from a cut cheek.
He needed advice. He needed comfort. He needed her to tell that he wasn't a monster. That he could stop if he wanted to. That he was right not to want to kill all those people. He didn't want to kill all those people. Didn't that make him more human?
In despair he sank to the floor and banged his head against the door.
"Why would I do that?" he whispered in bewilderment, banging his head against the door again. As if hitting his head would make the answer drop out.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A plea for attention.
"Mom!"
He didn't understand it. He needed clarification. He wanted her to tell him what to do. She was his mother. Desperation tinged his voice as he waited for her to come out. He needed an answer. He'd gone to Mohinder for it. The geneticist was the last one he'd spoken to. He knew things. Gabriel had turned to him for help. He sought forgiveness. It had cut him to realise what he was going to do. There was no gain – just pointless massacre. The revelation had made him step back made him start to think about what he'd been doing. He was a murderer. In his own words he took what others didn't deserve…so what was his purpose in blowing up the city. Mohinder didn't care. He wasn't listening. Gabriel with his childlike bewilderment and fear faded back into Sylar as a cold edge crept into his voice.
"I can hear you dialling 911," he snarled and hung up.
Gabriel came to the conclusion on his own. He had to stop the killing. He had to be…normal. The word tasted bitter and he felt himself fight against it. He was addicted to the power. He needed to stop, he knew, and to do that he had to remove himself from temptation. Go back to before...
He dressed as Gabriel, did his hair like Gabriel, and went to see his mother. It was easy to slip back into it and play the part. He took his mom a gift like the adoring son and he fixed the clock. He loved his mother. He really did. They had their problems but that didn't mean he didn't love her. He wished she could tell him that he was fine being normal. If he could just hear it from her then maybe he'd be able to keep the power lust locked away.
It wasn't possible. She wanted the most for him and he wanted to show her what he was capable of. He wanted to show her that he was special. He wanted her to be proud of him.
It all went wrong.
It wasn't supposed to happen that way.
She was supposed to comfort him, not reject him. Offer him salvation, not condemn him…
She wasn't supposed to try and kill him.
Her death was an accident, and a bit of him – the human part – died with her.
Then there was a sword at his neck and some scared, quivering Japanese guy on the other end.
He'd come to kill him and part of him knew that was that he needed – the part that watched his mother die in stunned horror.
"Then kill me!" he ordered.
The guy was shaking. Sylar sneered. "Coward," he hissed, rage poured out as ice, freezing the blade. Then he vanished and Sylar was left staring at his mother's dead body.
Mohinder had failed.
His mother had failed.
Even the Japanese guy had failed.
Sylar stared down at the thick pooling red and the will to be normal died.
She'd said he was special.
He was special.
Images came to him in the blood and he brought them out, drowning his hands in sticky scarlet as he spread it over the floor into a gory work of art.
"You're right mom," he whispered to the corpse, a slow malevolent smile spread across his face.
"I can be president."