Title: For eternity.
Warnings: An overall angsty piece; for this one just lots of angst, violence and character death.
Summary: Sylar glides his fingers through the recently polished metallic face of the golden clock eerily resting on his work table. It's a beautiful piece with rounded edges, not overly complicated machinery – the cogs and springs come apart without a thought – and a white generic face with a printed message that says: For eternity.
A/N: I'M NOT DEAD, SEE?
So, another piece added to the puzzle that I like to call the 'Burn it to ashes' series. Finally get to wrap up this triplet of one-shots. Does this mean the BITA verse is now complete?
Haha, I don't think so.
Big apologies for my lack of activity, I'm trying to get back on my feet with my writing.
As always all beta'ed by Purple_Lex 3
Happy reading :-)
Note: the song used at the end is A Demon's Fate by Within Temptation.
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes; if I did, I would have given the series a proper ending *_*
Sylar glides his fingers through the recently polished metallic face of the golden clock eerily resting on his work table. It's a beautiful piece with rounded edges, not overly complicated machinery – the cogs and springs come apart without a thought – and a white generic face with a printed message that says: For eternity.
Is special.
Its first owner was a wealthy doctor who received the object as a gift from his illegitimate lover, thus causing the old dare of secretly storing it to ensure in an effort of avoiding awkward questionings from his wife; it turned out she did noticed it when her believed-until-that-moment-to-be-faithful-companion passed away, finding the delicate piece promising infinity between his belongings.
She sold it for nothing at a pawn shop.
It was in that humid hell hole that it was bestowed for years and years, collecting dust on a shelf, forgotten behind a replica of a katana, until a group of robbers, desperate to get money for their next fix, assaulted the place and took with them many – albeit cheap – antiques, the box holding the timepiece between those, along with the life of the poor pawnshop owner.
Many hands touched the watch after that, though never for a long period and never to be used properly. Manhandled and underrated, it appeared that its operating life had been lost in a box, shielded from a gullible world that meandered about and built illusions on plastic foundations, but was also defenseless from time itself for its beauty had dimmed and thinned just with the influence of a few ghastly decades.
Time was like a bomb, whispering a countdown.
Tick, tick, tick.
He closed the face's lid and swiftly put his tools aside. A greased hand skimmed the length of his dark hair; it is getting long again, he thought disparagingly, and sighed heavily, staring out at the showcase. Gray & Sons. Something weighed heavily in his mind and after a minute or two of staring vacantly into open space, he dwelled once again on his previous thoughts.
Maybe that wasn't quite right, maybe the clock had been an anniversary gift from the gleaming wife and then when the two eternally-in-love spouses had wrinkled and shriveled away it was handed to their heir, an inebriated detestable man who finally lost the last of his legacy in a game of cards during a night in Vegas to a lawyer who in turn gave the timepiece to a stripper in Texas?
Sylar shook his head. Reality was difficult to grasp and infer when you possessed both the ability to read an object's history and the power to rewrite it. Chronicling memories became a nuisance, his mind a death trap with him stuck in it.
It had been three months since the encounter with John Brown, the Special who could manipulate memories and he, Gabriel Gray, was hovering in a semi-state of insanity.
He could nod and smile non-forcibly – albeit if only to appease Noah; eat a greasy hamburger in a nondescript place alongside a bunch of bothering teens without feeling the compelling, wanting need to stick his fries in their mouths; find entertainment in the act of seeing a child jumping up and down around his father and smirk just because of the annoyed look on the man's face; help an old lady crossing the street like he ought to have done when he was just Gabriel, without feeling the filthiest feeling of inadequacy taint his hands; smile flirtatiously at the pretty blonde waitress from the 7-Eleven close to the watch shop, detecting no pain and betrayal, nor flinch, in the blueness of her eyes; listen to good old-fashioned classics from the 70's while reclining on a chair, letting the daylight die on the horizon; sort through a decade of journeys across the country; wonder how the little bat-shit crazy named Luke is doing while waiting for the timer on the microwave to go off.
He could have an excuse at the ready to use his devilish smirk and flaunt his powers while catching bad guys; write long and dull reports that don't have any other feasible purpose other than to be archived; make jokes with Noah about Angela's lack of facial expressions while driving the assigned company car down winding highways; play with Noah a little more by ruining his precious morning coffee with an added extra iota of sugar just to see him cringe in distaste; receive a full lecture later with a roll of his eyes just in order to exchange the mugs as Sylar doesn't have a problem with extra sweetness anyway; and he could also close his eyes, lessening the opacity of a million other consuming thoughts by a smidgen.
He could feel guilty without feeling like a failure, for his acts were accountable for something.
Returning to her every night.
He heaved another sigh. He wears a tamed mask of sanctioned killer but something was stirred that day in John Brown's house, something that howled and scratched tenaciously with its petite, perfect claws seeking to diffuse and destroy the faultless bubble that he had created to cage himself within. For though the faces of his victims were beginning to blur and swirl among a sea of even more demoralizing thoughts, there was a face that couldn't be blurred or ignored – for it was painted in ink over his skin – and the sharpness of her features was almost as sharp as the severity lingering in her emeralds orbs.
She haunted him, judged him. The impious sorceress was punishing him in broad daylight, behind closed curtains, in his dreams, in the news, in magazines, in the street, whenever he turned around someone – or something – had her face embalmed like a badge, spreading her in the same way an infectious, virtual virus spreads over the net world.
He felt a hot-blooded feeling maddening his senses every time it happened.
How would someone feel if the ocean trench equivalent of its deepest desire rested upon a poster on every street? Naked to the public eye, Sylar was exposed in a way he had never been. Of course mindless to this, they keep carrying her, like a pretty emblem, an object of fashion, when he had bled out and suffered and faced his worst nightmare just to be where he was.
Justice was a foreign concept to him.
It was fairly amusing how the little cheerleader, who dared to stare back at him with mock bravado in a darkened locker room while hungry eyes swept about her defeated form, was imprinted in him, featured inside his wannabe eidetic memory.
She wasn't the first – victim, that is; he had had a fair share of terrible firsts in his repertoire – but the wiggle of her eyebrows as they shot up, the way her mouth parted in a silent scream, the hue of her discolored cheeks, the exact pitch of a thud her bones made once they healed was carved forever inside him, linked neuron to linked neuron, rested profoundly between his memories. He had killed countless others, defiled lives with little thought thereafter, but only one face lifted up and mocked him from the other side. Her memory was like a snake that slithered around so deep in his gray matter that he often questioned himself if anything else but she had been real.
Those memories were enough to make Sylar turn over a new leaf, played over and over in the solicitude of his mind, fueled strongly by barely a few words exchanged in a storage room of cleaning supplies.
But then again it is everything but amusing. For the rigorousness in which she ruled his every move was deflating and extremely frightening because the thing was: she didn't even have to lift a finger to do it.
The tattoo was his first warning. He had relegated the most treasured thing that Sylar had buried from others, something many had attempted to dig out but he preserved – though wounded and in the peril of death – alive.
A power over him.
So he moves, though he never makes contact. He doesn't allow himself such a risky development, even when he had been for all intents and purposes behaving himself for months, being the compliant agent that they wanted him to be, the man who wants nothing more than to complete the mission, a partner that makes even Noah smile from time to time with the faintest of pride in his expression.
He moves, every time, a little closer to her window while she sleeps soundly behind the glass, secured in warm blankets. His mind screaming for exertion, the black coat covering him does little to lessen the feeling of iciness wrapping around his bones.
But he is never ready to leave.
It's not during daylight – he couldn't be foolish enough as to commit such a neglectful mistake – but rather when night claims its reign is when he pushes outward, outside his petty shop to the coolly-covered pavement of the street, through the nighttime sky of the city until he stops with a bated breath, face pale and gleaming black eyes hovering in mid-air, perched at her window just staring – nothing more, nothing less – for hours.
What drives me towards her? What keeps me there? Is it an evolutionary imperative? Some gravity that comes in pulsars? Or is it some mystic bond that interlaces our fates together?
Sylar likes to think it is non-important; Gabriel, however, has other theories.
At first, right when this turn of affairs merged in his routine, he had blamed it on the jumble of memories – both real and adulterated – that were left after the messy encounter with the mementos manipulator. That man had messed with his mind in ways Angela Petrelli could only dream of. He could still hear the screams and the plethora of inane words bubbling from his mouth. Therefore, after her delivered John Brown to the company safe and tied-up, he went to see her. Checking, much like an investor does by way of periodically reading through the state of their deposits; he was just checking on her whereabouts.
Seeing for himself what he couldn't pry from others. Nobody would understand – not Peter, least of all Noah – this need to know she was still here in this world, inanimate to the ruthlessness of time. So he sought it and he didn't have a problem with that; pursuing answers to unanswered questions was his motto in life. When he then found that she was safe and unscathed, he returned, tranquil and at ease, to his taut niche. Yet something was ignited that night, a fire that licked hungrily at the flesh of his feet and couldn't be quenched. Once he tasted it, this burning need on his tongue, once he noticed he could get away with seeing her without anybody knowing, he found it harder and harder to leave.
Seconds turned to minutes and minutes to hours, the moon would rise and shine and the city would awaken again with its descended. And Sylar would be there through it all, over and over.
The college co-ed was mindless of the pair of eyes that stalked her every move. But her modesty was kept, rest assured, because the act wasn't obscene; he would politely avert his eyes to give her a moment of privacy, if needed – though mostly she was sleeping by then. He wasn't a pervert and he wasn't here to fuel any sick fantasy that he could lust after. No, the whole idea in itself was chaste, innocent, bordering on reverent, like a sinner who kneels at the pews in church every Sunday with a passion born of need.
And it was in moments like those, when burgeon need would flay him alive, that his muscles would move in their own accord, edging closer to her, truly contemplating stepping inside her dormitory just to see the flaming fire that he knew would burn hungrily behind her green eyes, feeding on her rage for him like a junkie desperate for his next fix.
He had become addicted to her.
It was absurd, beneath him, illogical; those urges were unreasonable. Inwardly chiding himself, he craned his neck and stared at the bright street lamp across the shop. Could he decipher the reason behind his behavior? She was immortal, indestructible, she couldn't be harmed, and she couldn't even be taken away from the frame of his life, not when there were common strings attaching them together.
"You are not like the others; you're different, special, and I couldn't kill you even if I wanted to."
The hidden truth laced behind those words was that he didn't want to. If his destiny was to die alone, here it was his cosmic joke for the universe because she was his scapegoat from it, the breaking hammer that would shatter any misplaced brick.
Safe. He had spared her of a fortune countless others had perished from, of a death worse than any other. And then when he was done, done with her, because he didn't need any other thing other than for her to be the carrier of humanity's precious treasure – just to exist there for eternity – he continued on his way, assured that brick by brick, drop of blood after drop of blood, he had built for himself a better outcome.
Just knowing she would be there.
So he wouldn't – couldn't – die alone. He was merely securing his own well-being; investing in her.
But something had changed; the firmly planted notion that she, though indestructible, could be harmed, came into consideration. And the thought that she could cease to exist is oddly more frightening than the one of himself dying.
His ragged breathing perturbed the stillness of his dark shop, the lonely bulb flickering randomly in the street, threatening to leave him in darkness. "Why do I care?" Sylar whispers to no one; head bowing down in the midst of fear, he feels like that little boy again, the one who would ask for his mother to help him keep the monsters at bay.
Virginia is not there and his biologic mother was never there in the first place. With no one to answer and just his intuitive aptitude to respond, his eyes water and he feels a bitterness and un-settlement rise within him that leaves him feeling lost and unsure when his words are nothing but swallowed by the night, in the offing of being washed away with the subtle caress of his stupor as he collects the treacherous tear rolling down his cheek.
A power can't answer and he would laugh if the situation wasn't so dire because power is the only thing he has left.
He remembers last night; Claire was twitching in her slumber, she always does – he knows she is a restless sleeper, just like him, and he hates himself a little more for knowing this. Her golden locks were carelessly sprawled across the pillow as she faced the window, sacred and glowing with the moonlight coming in from outside. She smiled and the little gesture made his heart surge with warmth and apprehension, beating faster. His body reacts instinctively, his control stretches thin, and he edges closer. Sylar, the most powerful of them all, is impotent under the faintest twitches of her mouth.
Grunting in distaste, he throws the golden clock to the floor with a flick of his wrist; it rolls far away from him, the face lid opening and even in the faint light he can make out the words engraved. They mock him, too.
Making sure to keep all the locks in his shop mentally secured in place, he settles into the silence, gasping for air that is unsavory because now the urge to see her consumes his body. He will pry apart a clock, slice his wrists open, combine blood with metallic cogs and remind himself of who he is – a murderer, detestable, unwanted – and what he deserves in life – hell, nothing, anything that's horrible.
Time and time he will do this, he vows now, until the sun finally gets to shine again and then he will put on his suit dutifully without the scars to frame his skin, without the memory of his breath fanning the panes of her window. Sylar closes his eyes, the memory playing, the even mirror surface reflecting wanton black eyes, as he is coming closer.
Tick, tick, tick.
Noah is sure someone up there is laughing.
Kicking its feet in the air as it laughs, rolling over and over, because which other reason could there be other than someone finding amusement in all the turmoil that keeps coming his way?
He is not entirely in his right mind; he has not been since a few seconds ago. He knows the door of his hotel room was left totally open, exposing his holster and weapon draped over the bed; he knows that the lady standing by the ice machine has probably fainted or ushered a few curses his way, maybe both; he knows that the soles of his bare feet should hurt as they are scraping the asphalt because it is rough, and he is acutely aware that he is running through a parking lot half-naked, just in a shirt and a pair of blue boxers, but he is incapable of listening to any voice of reason underneath the buzzing sound in his mind. The last words he heard just before his cell phone died were: "just like Arthur and he is going after Claire right now."
His hands feel heavy and his tongue weightless, like cottony sugar as he reaches for the public phone at the side of the curb.
Sugar. He remembers, fingers hesitating for a moment before they move rapidly, pushing the numbers he knows by heart now. There is a ring, then two, and then Noah starts adding his name to the list of people he is going to slaughter if something happens to his baby girl when he finally picks up.
"Hello."
"It's Bennet."
"Thought you were on a mission I wasn't part of," he says. His voice has a raspy quality to it; well, it is three in the morning, maybe he was sleeping. "Are you missing me already?" Or maybe he is just being an ass.
Noah doesn't need this. "Claire is in danger," he says bluntly.
There is a pause. "I could call Peter if you want-"
"No, he is not powerful enough." He cuts him off, angered, biting the words harshly; he doesn't need Gabriel's insecurities right now but instead Sylar's keen sense of control. "Just listen to me carefully – Angela dreamed it." The words are definite, no room for doubts. "Somebody is going to strip my baby girl of her power, just like Arthur took Peter's, just like he took Adam Monroe's." He lets that sink before adding, "Do you know what I'm talking about?"
"Yes."
Good, he doesn't think he could have explained without completely losing it. "I can't get there quickly enough so I need you to do this for me; do you know where Claire is?"
There is another pause. "I know."
"Then go there and do something about it because if you don't I swear to God, Sylar, I'm gonna kill you for good this time."
The threat floats heavily in the air before the phone shuts off and Noah's knees go limp. Supporting his weight on the edge of the ancient machine before him, he closes his eyes. He is sure he can hear the laughing this time and it is the only thing he can focus on besides the fact that he just send a monster to save his daughter's life.
God indeed has a twisted sense of humor.
He is a killer but, if nothing else, he has style.
What he does, what he did, was deplorable and shameless. He knows this and knows that others know. But Sylar is a showman, his thirst for power can only compare to his thirst for drama. He likes to shock the ground of his adversaries, throw them through a loop, because he is all for the foreplay; prolonging the inevitable only increases his satisfaction once he reaches the bloody part of it. Then it ends and with that all enjoyment too. He would talk down to them, twist some truths just to see the hope glowing in their eyes slowly die down as they realize there is no hope, not really, and that all their lives have been constructed around an unique epitome.
To die here with him.
This is why every showdown of his was accompanied with an epic entrance worthy of an award.
However, there is nothing stylish in his movements as he stalks over to the window, the same he'd been staring through the night before, and flings it open; every pull of muscle is raw, thoughtless, and taut, as if in a numb daze. He remembers Monroe's ashes littered on the floor of Pinehurst and his heart beats butterfly-fast, triggered by his own memories. Those same ones that he wears at the front of his mind. The floodlights cast eerie shapes around her room but his eyes wander over a single spot.
Claire's bed is empty.
The simmer starts to boil and very quickly Sylar feels like he is running a marathon. His head twists around and then he sees. She is hunched over in a corner, big doleful eyes glowing as she is just in her pink pajamas, and a looming figure is closing in on her. He is trampled by another memory; the scene is painfully familiar. He quickly processes what could have happened till that point: she was asleep, hears a noise, sees the other man stalking in her dormitory, sits bolt upright, maybe hits him with something, and springs to the corner. Why the corner? It doesn't matter now, he is here.
And this time the bad guy will lose.
"Stay back from the girl!" He yells, another familiar memory rounding the corner, an arm pointing outward. Telekinesis does the job, propelling the man backwards until he crashes against the opposite wall, head making contact with a dull thud. So much for a non-dramatic entrance, he inwardly chides as he turns his head.
Claire has a gun. Figures; that's what she was trying to retrieve from the corner.
"What are you doing here?" She all but bites. Her perfectly white teeth are bared, her hair is a tousled thatch, and her arms sag slightly as she aims the gun in his direction. He doesn't move. Claire is rounding on him slowly, approaching the door with deliberated steps. He is sure she is going to make a crazy dash for it.
"Saving you," he offers nonchalantly and the words feel incredibly accurate on his tongue, as if he had been doing this since the beginning. He shakes his head of those thoughts. His hands are repositioned in a placating form. He doesn't like the feeling of bullets tearing his flesh; he is pretty sure nobody does. After months of wanting to confront her, this was definitely not anywhere within the ways he had imagined going about it.
"I'm pretty sure you're not the hero of the story," she snarls and Sylar momentarily lose focus in the fieriness of her emerald orbs, thus his attention wanders for a millisecond too late. He should have picked up on the other man lifting himself from the floor, taking two steps forward, hitting his ankle on the leg of a chair.
But he doesn't. He is too wrapped up in what Claire has told him.
It's only when her head turns sharply, probably alarmed by the sound, that he sees the dark figure of the man reflecting itself in her eyes. Claire loses her footing as she turns abruptly, the gun splayed onto the cold floor, flying out of her grasp as she lands on her back hard. He doesn't allow the other perpetrator to go further than the four steps he had already stolen, threatening to rob a fifth, while he was unguarded. Sylar slams his body into pseudo Arthur, too caught in the frenzy of protecting Claire to display any other power of his vast arsenal.
No, brute force will have to go.
He smiles, overly pleased when his elbow connects with the other man's soft gut, leaving him breathless and doubling over in pain. He is not pleased however when he is pushed outwards with kinetic force and it sends him crashing onto one of the unoccupied beds. He lands heavily, grunting and cursing as the edge of the wood framing around the bed splinters and bites harshly into his back. Sylar forgets all delicacy, boiling in anger, and opts for efficiency. He discharges Elle's ability, creating a blue arc that sears away the night's darkness and encompasses the abilities' thief, burning his body from the inside out. He drops in a heap at the floor, slightly sizzling the last tremors of his miserable life fade away.
Sylar heaves a sigh of relief. His back hurts like hell and he is sure two ribs are broken, but he is grateful for the pain will ebb away soon thanks to his regeneration – and he got to save the girl.
Claire takes a deep shuddering breath and quickly stands from where she so carelessly fell; crossing her arms protectively over her chest, she seems to debate with herself, looking from one dark man to another, finally settling on Sylar and staring at him with a mix of emotions he can't quite place.
"What did he want?"
"Your power."
Her shoulders fall. "Of course, aren't they always?" Her mouth moves dispassionately.
It hurts more than anything, to see her so defeated. In his head, Sylar has sought her forgiveness over and over, but that's the problem – his head is like a storage container, a recollection of powers, feelings, and mementos, and he'd been living inside them too many years to know what is real and what are fabricated illusions. "Claire, I know this is not the best moment but I just wanted to say I'm so-"
The click of a gun rings loudly, both set of eyes turning at the same time. Claire's breath hitches in her throat as she gazes at the man thought dead, the man who is set on striping her of her essence point. He is extending a shaky hand in her direction, cocked gun in place; she grasps the desk she is leaning on and braces herself for impact.
Sylar has a different reaction.
This one just won't give up, he thinks briefly. He knows that the villain of the story always comes back to haunt the hero after he turns his back, because he has been there too many times to not know.
That's when a realization falls into place. "I'm pretty sure you're not the hero of the story," she had said. Only that he is and he knows now what bugged him so much about her saying that. Because he had already decided the answer to that question, years ago in the painter's loft right after he heard his forewarning of the future, only a month after hearing the Japanese man spelling out his dark diatribe.
He would be the hero.
His impulsiveness works quicker this time for he receives the bullet just in the nick of time to stop it from hitting Claire. It embeds deep into his flesh and seeks a place right into his beating heart. He grunts, touches the hole in his shirt, and falls.
Time comes to a stop.
He can hear the ruffling of the carpet as Claire's feet scrapes the fabric moving closer, her voice as she yells and curses his name, feels the warmth of blood seeping from the open wound staining his shirt.
He is not healing; he is going to die.
"How many angels can dance on a head of a pin?"
"Why is there evil?"
"How do we make love stay?"
"You're not like the others; you're different, special, and I couldn't kill you even if I wanted to."
"You really don't understand her, do you?"
"When I touched your hand, I could feel the pain that I caused you and I never meant for you to be this hurt-"
"He doesn't see our humanity, Claire. He never will."
"You and I are really alike; we can't be damaged – except for a broken heart."
"There'll come a day – maybe tomorrow, or next week, next year – when you realize the... hunt – your entire life – was meaningless and disappointing. 'Cause there's no challenge in it. No, all the power in the world doesn't matter if you've lived an unsatisfied life. But I think you know that already, don't you?"
"I guess not everybody gets old. Not everybody dies."
"Then you just have that much longer to suffer, don't you?"
"Who are you?"
"Find an anchor - something that reminds you of you. That way, when you're feeling lost, you'll have something to hang on to."
"I want you right at my side."
"You'll get bored after like a hundred years of trying to off me, watching all your loved ones drop like flies. You may eventually come to forgive me. Maybe you'll even love me."
"I will tell you how you die. You die alone. I'm sorry."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you will collect a lot of powers. You'll kill many people. You'll become strong, the strongest of them all. But in the end, it won't make any difference. We all gather to stop you. You're alone. No one will mourn your death. No one will shed a tear. No one. I wish I can change fate. But you must go on your path."
"It's alright; I finally know my part in all this. To die here with you. I finally get to be a hero."
"You want love, companionship, because you don't want to be alone."
"Stop thinking, let it happen."
"You and I are the same."
"I'm not that man anymore."
"I'm a hero now."
Tick, tick, tick.
The countdown finally comes to an end. He glances at Claire; she is crouched over and her face is pulled so taut it looks as though it may break at any moment. Sylar smiles, a gush of blood tainting his lips and teeth. He beat destiny after all.
He gets to not die alone.
"Why?" She rasps in a whisper and he is not sure if it is the blood loss or something else but he can swear her eyes, the raging inferno she only reserves for him, has quieted down to a mild flame.
"Why do I care?" He recalls his earlier constant ticking in his head has quieted down, the close edge of Death's sword bringing answers he couldn't find before because suddenly he understands and it is clear as water.
He searches for her fingers because he needs to ground himself a few seconds more before he lets himself fly free. Interlacing his bloody digits with her cold ones, he brings her hand close to his lips. He smells her sweet essence one more time for the road and kisses her goodbye.
"Because I´ve always loved you," he swears, and it feels real. Sylar gets to see the smoldering fire in her eyes again; burning and scorching him just as he imagines the flames of hell will do once he crosses to the other side.
Another shot is heard.
And then he embraces the petite arms holding him down.
When the shadows remain, in the light of day
On the wings of darkness he'll retaliate.
He'll be falling from grace, till the end of all his days.
From the ashes of hate, it's a cruel demon's fate
On the wings of darkness, he's returned to stay
There will be no escape 'coz he's falling far from grace.
The first thing he notices about the so-called afterworld is that it smells like blood.
And vanilla.
One eye opens warily; the first thing he processes is that there is light streaming from the open window, cascading down the creamy walls. Birds are singing, bugs are chirping, and blonde hair is prickling against his nose. He immediately sat up; his arms are still securely wrapped around Claire.
Her eyes are closed and she is pliable in his hands. The moisture on her back is still fresh; one finger hooks in the cloth hole left there. He traces the skin underneath; it's soft and there are no traces of the injury.
She healed but she is not waking up.
Sylar panics. This was not supposed to happen, he was the one supposed to die being a hero. Save the cheerleader, save the world. He focuses his attention on the man laying immobile on the floor. He knows he is dead. With a blink of his eye he snaps his neck for good measure.
"Claire!" Noah comes barging onto the door. He takes in the scene before him. The thief is dead on the floor, there are signs of a fight. His baby girl is in the arms of his partner. Sylar, Gabriel, whoever he is right now, has a far-off look plastered on his face. "What happened?" He demands.
Sylar glides his fingers through the shiny golden locks eerily resting on his chest. It's a beautiful piece with rounded edges, not overly complicated machinery – the cogs and springs come apart without a thought – and a white generic face with a printed message that says: For eternity.
He is a watchmaker.
"She's not waking up."
And he broke her.
*cries* Sorry but I did warned it was angsty…
Next time guys, you will get the continuation from where I left on 'Cold Snap'
Ok so I got MNTSK, a one-shot placed in the future, a collaboration piece written with my friend Purple_Lex, another multi-chaptered fic placed in the future and The show Must go On to work onto.
This is me showing my love for this show, this pairing and you guys.