AN: The second chapter of this. Sorry this starts slow.
Chapter 2
Maniacal Doomed
Darkness, then a pinprick of light. The street light grew brighter as he approached it. The alley was deserted, the street nearly so, silence pervading the area. The building two to his left, fifth floor, deep left apartment, accessible through fire escape. He knew it like a mantra, and he had only learned it this morning. Omnilinguilism would be VERY helpful…But he had to wait. He had caught the eye of the FBI, and killing one of the teams next door neighbors might not be a good idea.
Hunching his back against a late night chill he didn't feel, Sylar walked down the street. A flash from the side of his vision caught his attention. He turned. The sign about the shop said "Frankfurt & Sons". Looking through the glass, a part of him froze. The shop was filled with timepieces. The part that was Gaberiel demanded entrance, the comfort of a familiar pastime. All the lights were on, suggesting that the owner was still inside, although a sign clearly stated they were closed. Sylar pushed at the door cautiously. It opened with a tinkle. They didn't even lock the door. Fools.
He entered, acutely aware of the ticking of second hands, the grinding of gears. He frowned. The clocks were off, all of them. Sylar ran his hand along the length of a grandfather clock, feeling the grain of the wood, learning its' secrets.
"Excuse me," the voice was indignant. "We're closed." Sylar turned. The man was short and thin; a man of obvious cleverness and little to no physical skill. As he watched the boy (for he was a boy, really) pushed his glasses up his nose and ran a hand through his brown hair.
"Forgive me, sir. I was merely reminiscing." Sylar looked everywhere but at this Frankfurt, making the small man uncomfortable.
"Well, if you will just leave." The boy smiled, trying to seem friendly. Sylar ignored him.
"You see, I used to work in a shop like this, repairing timepieces." Gaberiel gave a small, sad smile. "It seems so long ago now."
"I'm sorry sir, but you really need to leave." Frankfurt was clearly agitated, and Gaberiel could hear his heart beat a little faster.
"They're all off you know, the clocks." Gaberiel's gaze rested on a carved coocoo clock.
"Excuse me?"
"Your timepieces are off."
"Get out. Now." And now Gaberiel looked at Frankfurt. The man's face was red with rage. Gaberiel was entreating upon his territory and disrespecting his profession. Frankfurt wanted him gone, or he wanted him dead. Gaberiel smiled again and moved past him toward the door. He heard a click behind him and turned. Frankfurt had a gun pointed at his head.
Sylar laughed. It was not a laugh of mirth or even nervousness; it was a laugh of the maniacal doomed; a laugh for the insane and lonely. Frankfurt blinked, gun starting to shake slightly as Sylar raised his head toward the ceiling, the laugh reverberating off every surface.
"I-I said get out of my shop." Sylar stopped laughing and looked at the little man, head tilted sideways, gaze predatory. Caution was forgotten. Sylar knocked the gun out of Frankfurt's hand, grabbed him by the throat and pushed the man backwards until he was pinned against the grandfather clock Sylar had been admiring earlier. Sylar smiled at the terror stricken face before him.
"You can't defeat me." To illustrate his point, he picked the gun up off the floor and shot the man's clocks. All of them that he could. When he was done, he threw the gun farther into the shop and dropped the boy. He left. Sylar felt quite cheery.
AN: I like messing with people's heads, apparently. Hope you liked it.