Chapter 1-
Compulsion-
"The soul, like the body, accepts by practice whatever habit one wishes it to contact."
Socrates
Sylar sat in the small but comfortable abode of the Iyer's, and finished off his bran flakes. He was sitting in a hard backed wood chair, and satiated by his meal, relaxed upon the arm rests.
His arms were covered in sweat. Not that...not that he had done much physical work today, but overall it was a rather tiring experience. Tiring but satisfying. The cool beads of sweat dripped off of him and hit the warming iced floor, glacially turning into a liquid state from solid. He arose from the chair, cracking his neck with a rather congratulatory "pop." His skin, lubricated by the perspiration as it was, stuck for a barely noticeable second to the wood.
Sylar stood and saw his dastardly deeds. Job well done. Maybe even one of his finest works. It was all making him terribly excited, thinking of uses for this new power. He looked at the neckline of his plain gray shirt, underneath the dark trench coat he wore. Around it were little bits of sweat that had turned it a darker color with moisture. Another came down his neck and he touched it, slowly cooling it down into a mini-ice cube. Sylar then held it in his hand and placed his hand on the back of the hot skin of his neck, letting it slide down his back with a bit of a moan. Better now. He enjoyed the little delights his specialness afforded him.
Then his measure of calm was shattered as he went through memories of who to use his power on first.
"That's enough, Gabriel."
"My name is SYLAR!"
The words echoed and bounced around his brain, scraping against the walls of his thoughts, clawing at him. How dare he say those things? A mere...human, to call him by that name that he had forsaken as Father had forsaken him! No one chooses their birth name, do they? He didn't like Gabriel, though with his current...profession he found the association of Gabriel the Archangel and death to be quite fascinating. When he was younger, in those little naive years, Mother would tell him stories. Stories from the bible. Stories passed down over the years. Stories about the angels. The Seraphim. The Logos. The Nephilim.
Sylar noticed something, his feet still feeling the inside of his socks and shoes, but no longer the floor. An invisible cushion kept him inches above the floor, levitating. It was quite freeing, and he rolled his neck in relief. This had been a good day. Even though...Bennet.
Bennet!
His name..was Sylar.
He had looked at that watch. Seen how it worked. It was one of his favorites- simple and elegant. But the Sylar watch...why, he thought about it more. He'd chosen it for a reason. The Sylar watch was a newer model, an...evolution of the last. The next step. The leap forward. As was he.
Bennet was wrong, just another office worker. Another plebian. Sylar thought about it more and more, the rage flowing through his veins, almost intoxicating.
He grew frustrated, and the bowl began to quake. At first he tried to stop it, but then he focused his anger into the bowl. He focused the rage, shooting through him, the synapses firing, the hormones rushing about in ferocious flurries of activity and just let it consume him. And then...
CRACK!
The bowl shattered outwards into a million pieces, and Sylar put up a hand.
He looked around the cramped dwellings and paced amongst the floating shards. He grabbed one with just his forefinger and thumb, and brought it across the back of his hand, a small incision.
He had been practicing.
Sylar focused, and looked at his bleeding hand, a few drops of crimson falling onto the frozen floor, staining it red.
He looked at his hands. The veins. The lines drawn like on a painting. He looked at the skin, and saw every...single...pore. He thought a little to the right, and slowly stitched his skin back together with just his mind.
He had been practicing.
Now, Bennet.
Bennet. That...fool.
Insignificant.
Little.
Cretin!
He would pay.
Sylar pushed down and the shards hit the floor, clattering about the ice, scooting around like a tea cup across a table.
He walked into the bedroom of Mr. Iyer, and saw his handiwork.
The curved Indian blade left a horizontal cut through the abdomen of Mr.Iyer, which Sylar had let bleed out.
He remembered reading something about more likely being killed by a weapon for personal defense than killing an intruder and let out a wry chuckle.
It seemed like he was remembering things quite well recently.
He opened the door to the bathroom, to the night's shower of Mrs.Iyer, a rather attractive woman. Nothing greater than destroyed beauty. He had begun simply, opening the medicine cabinet and sending razor blades through the woman's Achilles tendons. As Mrs.Iyer tried to stumble away he pulled the shower faucet towards them, ripping it off the line and having it cleave right through her skull.
The blood showered over him, but he simply stopped the droplets inches away from his face and left them across the mirror in a macabre manner.
Spelling out...
"Welcome To My Nightmare"
Sylar sat next to the corpse of Mr.Iyer, adjusted the blood stained blankets, and went to bed, thinking of one Mr.Bennet.
This would be fun.
"Revenge is a confession of pain"
Latin Proverb