A Sylar Christmas Carol - The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come

Sylar looked up from the ground. He stood watching the shadow figure glide towards him. When it got closer, Sylar thought he recognized yet another face from his past. It was the artist, the one who painted events foretelling the future. He look emaciated, as if he hadn't eaten in ages.

"You're the spirit who's going to show me my future," he asked, resigned to listen without protest. By now, he figured it was best not to fight the inevitable, and just go along with the strange circumstances he found himself in. But of all the spirits he had been bound to, this one was the one he least wanted to spend time with. He always knew his future would be exactly what he wanted it to be. He would have everything, control everyone, and be the most powerful man on the planet.

Of course, there were always people who were interferences. Noah and Peter had been, even that Japanese guy who looked so much like the second spirit. His hated interaction with Parkman really took the cake. He had never felt so furious, and helpless at the same time. The anger he felt at the loss of his body built up until all he could taste was blood, the blood of all those involved. He swore to murder them all, but as of yet, had been unable to make good on that threat. Just to make them all nervous, Sylar had resumed his hunt for those who possessed abilities he wanted.

"So what are you going to show me that I have to see?" Sylar's cockiness had been taken down a notch, and he found himself actually wanting to know.

This new spirit held out its hand, a bony finger pointing down the road. Great purple bruises dotted his bare arms.

He's a drug addict, Sylar thought. His eyes followed the bony finger pointing down the fog-filled road. Together, they walked along in silence. Sylar saw that they were in front of his apartment. "Why are we back here? I thought you were going to teach me a lesson or something. Is that it?" he asked, puzzled.

The spirit only pointed towards the front door.

Sylar went up to the door and entered the building. It was deathly quiet inside, with no sounds or voices from other apartments. He turned to look behind him. The spirit continued pointing ahead. Sylar walked up to the door of his apartment. He raised his hand, and telekinetically pushed the door open. As he entered the living room, he could see that the place had been ransacked. Not that he ever had much, but it was as if someone had gone through every nook and cranny.

As he walked around, checking the room out, he noticed more stuff than he'd had before, as if he'd accumulated some things since he was last there. But with the damage, much of what was left was broken. He wondered who had done this, and why. He picked up a small statue, its origin unknown to him. Anger filled him, anger and sadness. He crushed the useless object in his hand, cutting himself. The wound healed in seconds.

"Why is my apartment like this? Who did this?" he demanded of the silent spirit. "Why won't you answer me?" He went into the bedroom, to find that furniture was missing, and so were most of his clothes. Lying on the floor, he noticed a newspaper, and picked it up. His eyes roamed to the date. It was over 15 years in the future. Sylar let the paper fall to the floor, and went back into the living room.

"What the hell happened here?" he shouted. Completely frustrated, Sylar headed out into the hallway and left the building. He started for the sidewalk, but saw his way impeded by the spirit.

In a micro-fraction of a second, Sylar found himself in Noah Bennet's place. There were several people sitting around the open living area. Sylar saw Noah, albeit an appreciably older Noah, in the center of things. He noticed Peter Petrelli, whose brother Sylar had slaughtered like a pig.

"It really worked! I mean, it was a gamble," Peter said, smiling. Some of the others murmured in agreement.

Noah nodded. "If not for Jason, it wouldn't have been possible." He looked at someone Sylar had never seen before. He sensed an ability in the young man, but offhand, couldn't tell what it was.

"You found him, Noah. If it hadn't been for the old Company files..." an older and thinner Matt Parkman piped up.

"There's enough credit to go around. He's dead, and that's all that matters. After all these years, we finally found a way to kill that murderous bastard." Noah rubbed the back of his neck.

Sylar saw that age had crept up on Bennet faster than the last time he had seen him, when the spirit of present Christmas's had taken him into the future briefly, to visit the cemetery. Losing Claire probably hadn't helped. He and his daughter had been close, at least until Sylar had somehow interfered, and caused the deaths of Sandra and Lyle Bennet. Without his family, Noah had lost everything. Sylar felt that he had left only death and unhappiness in his wake, and it didn't satisfy him anymore.

"So which evolved person did Bennet get this time?" Sylar asked the spirit. "He never had much respect for anyone who had abilities. Just bag-n-tag, as he put it. He even convinced me to work with him for awhile. Well, he didn't. That was Mamma Petrelli's idea. He really didn't even want me to do anything." Sylar shook his head. It was like he had said. When he tried to be of help, no one would let him. And he was the strongest of all of them.

The spirit started to move towards the door. Sylar followed. "So now what? You still haven't told me who they're talking about."

The spirit raised his thin arm and again, Sylar was whisked away. This time he found himself in a room that smelled strongly of disinfectant. Everything was metal, the cabinets, tables, and...

Sylar saw that he was in a morgue. Two men in plastic aprons were working over a draped body. One of the morgue attendants grabbed the foot tag, turning it over. "Who's this one?" he asked his co-worker.

The senior pathologist ran a finger down the page on his clipboard. "Hm, let me check the computer. Hang on." The older man punched the keyboard quickly. "Oh yeah, he's a John Doe. No one has claimed him yet. Two days past the deadline already. Get him ready for Potter's Field."

He was still new, and wasn't quite familiar with the lingo they used in the morgue, but he knew he'd learn it eventually. "Potter's Field?" asked the other man.

"He's being cremated," responded the senior clerk. "No one claims them, we send them to a mortuary.

They two men loaded the body up into a body bag, tagged it with new instructions, and set it on a gurney..

"Just roll it into the hallway. Someone from the mortuary will pick him up. Ok, then, who's next?" The men had already lost interest in the unclaimed John Doe.

Sylar looked at the spirit. "So?"

The spirit pointed at the body bag.

"What? You want me to look at it? No thanks!" Sylar stepped away from the gurney.

The spirit's finger was shaking as it remained in the same position.

"No!"

Sylar found himself in another place, another room. It was dim, cool, and quiet. He saw a man working with a body bag, the same one he had seen in the morgue. Sylar, with the spirit beside him, moved closer, his curiosity getting the better of him. The man unzipped the body bag, revealing a visage Sylar feared more than any he could have seen, his own. He stepped back. "It can't be," he whispered. Sylar suddenly recalled something someone had said to him a few years ago.

"No one will mourn your death, no one will shed a tear, no one."

He wanted to shout out, as the man walked over to a wall, and opened a hatch. He rolled the gurney the body lay upon over to the hatch, and pushing a button, set the body on a rolling belt that led into...

Sylar's eyes went wide as he saw the body rolling into a flaming cremation pit. "It's not possible. They couldn't have killed me." He stepped right in front of the mortuary attendant, who did not see him. "I can't die!"

Sylar tried to stop the body from rolling forward, but he was unable to grab the pale corpse. He wasn't really a part of this existence.

Suddenly, Sylar found himself lying on his back, rolling into the pit. He was now the corpse. As he lay there, the heat beginning to permeate his senses, he started yelling. "Give me another chance. I never got a second chance. Why show me these things if I can't change anything?" He felt his arms and legs begin to burn. The pain was incredible. How could he be feeling pain? He wasn't really here. "I'll change! I'll stop killing, and do good for people. Let me live, and I promise to prove myself. Give me another chance!" he yelled in abject panic. Then his vision went black.

A/N: thanks to all my readers, whether you reviewed or not. I appreciate the support. One chapter left!