(no subject)
0900 hours
Heroes | Ensemble (point of views)
PG13 | 1151 words
Sylar often wonders what landed him here.
Trading in freedom for servitude and acting like some damn babysitter to a crowd of timid and fearful specials. It was what was asked of him if he wanted asylum and as much as he wanted to break every restriction placed upon him, he didn’t think it necessary to bring confrontation to an already hostile situation.
He looks up from the empty warehouse’s floor, dark eyes trained on the heated discussion happening a few feet away.
Peter and Mohinder are arguing about him again.
He can hear the bickering going back and forth, a statement is made about how he can’t be controlled, which is then countered by Peter’s ridiculous excuses to keep him around. It goes on and on until they’re both too pissed or frustrated with each other to even speak.
The first few days he finds it amusing, up until Mohinder starts threatening boycott and their arguments become tedious immaturity. It usually ends with Mohinder giving him an indecent glare over Peter’s shoulder before stalking off and Peter’s lethal warning towards his malicious grin.
---
He can’t help but notice the visible tension in the room whenever a siren blares past. How each muscle flexes and jaws grind together. He can practically hear oxygen being sucked down and held, and how heartbeats can beat so furiously against their ribcages.
He supposes that he should feel guilty.
Afterall, it was with his help, that the once hushed government manhunt had turned into an all out blood bath; a movement the national news had deemed the ‘modern witch trials’. The entire world knew about them now and while concentration camps were being built across the globe to house people like them, Sylar couldn’t help but scoff at the irony.
Peter had taken on the rebellion, equating it to a revolution but even he couldn’t deny their situation was becoming eerily similar to those concentration camps located miles away.
It was just missing the torture.
---
They don’t go outside; and when they do, they’re paired up like some childish buddy system. One day, someone made the error of pairing him up with a cocky brunette with a barrier power.
Big mistake.
They found her body a few meters away, skull unceremoniously slashed. The action had earned him tense expressions, zero respect and much to his displeasure, a bodyguard.
---
He’s not allowed to talk to anyone, not that they would talk back. They’re all so terrified of him in the first place but it doesn’t sate the need for communication. Peter’s practically castrated him: no powers, no communication, no killing. He wonders if the notion of him snapping has crossed his mind yet, if it has, he hasn’t shown it by lifting any restrictions.
His new powers he treats fickly. The prospect of appearing as someone else has passed his intrigue and has further put a strain on its use. He can’t use it here either. Everyone knows each other and the suggestion of seeing a new face, let alone a duplicated one, would only cause havoc.
Barriers, on the other hand, seem like a complete waste of ability.
---
Everyone watches him.
In all honesty, he’s not surprised. If he were them, he’d probably watch him too but the most lingering gazes come from Peter and Mohinder. Coincidentally, those are the only two he’s ever had a conversation with in this place, well, aside from the smug youth he killed days earlier.
He feels it should bother him, being watched so carefully and followed, but it doesn’t. He can understand the reasoning and just because he promised to behave doesn’t mean he’s achieved anyone’s trust.
Trust isn’t earned in a day, week, or even month.
He hopes he isn’t still here by then.
---
“Did you orchestrate all of this?” He asks, fingers crumbling a cracker in his palm. Peter is sitting beside him, body as rigid as his reply, “Someone had to pick up where Micah left off.”
He can’t help it, he laughs. The action is eyed warily by a middle-aged man leaning against a cracked beam and he stops. Peter’s voice doesn’t change though, “Did you even have the decency to stop laughing long enough to kill him or did that meld into the murder too?”
“I was following orders.”
He can feel Peter flinch, biting sarcasm following before he gets up and walks away, “I bet you were.”
---
The man who started this whole ordeal is here. His body hunched and perched on an oil drum, hands clasped between his legs and a once pristine suit now a shamble of rips and tears. His daughter is there too; faked defiant eyes shielding worry and fear as she rakes the crowd with her gaze.
Nathan keeps her at a good distance. His new found concern for anyone’s safety a cause for lifted eyebrows as he drags her along with him wherever he goes. She hasn’t seen him yet, and for that he’s sort of relieved. The last time he saw her, he had been hovering over her exposed brain and spewing monotonous crap and while he was blatantly overdue for retaliation; he thinks she might have more than justice on her mind.
---
“Do you regret it?”
“What?” he sounds ridiculous, and he thinks his voice was a bit too high.
“You heard me.” The abrupt response was just that, abrupt. Sylar has to admit that seeing Mohinder as angry as he’s been the past few days has made him cautious. He doesn’t acknowledge it though, just looks up at him and responds.
“Do you mean, by being a human weapon and killing countless innocents?”
“No, by manipulating your way into making this an all out war.”
“You know my answer.” If Mohinder can use abrupt answers, so can he.
“So that’s how you’re going to reply, by assuming everyone knows your motives and that there isn’t a need for explanation. You asked for refuge, asked for our help and all we got in return was a dead girl and shoddy behavior.”
“Mohinder, shut up.” It was a crass and immature reply and he paused, straightening a bit, “when have I ever been repentant? It’s who I am… you should be used to it by now.”
The man just stares at him, disbelief painted on his face before turning away and leaving the conversation just as mad as he had entered.
It’s all a lie though. He does regret it, every day. He regrets ever thinking he’d find an ally in Danko and living vicariously through the fruition it would have supplied.
As he flicks his gaze over the shaking line of dirtied individuals, his mind backtracks every last move he made with him, how he should have seen the betrayal coming from a mile away and how, out of sheer luck, he had managed to get away.
Heroes | Ensemble (point of views)
PG13 | 1151 words
Sylar often wonders what landed him here.
Trading in freedom for servitude and acting like some damn babysitter to a crowd of timid and fearful specials. It was what was asked of him if he wanted asylum and as much as he wanted to break every restriction placed upon him, he didn’t think it necessary to bring confrontation to an already hostile situation.
He looks up from the empty warehouse’s floor, dark eyes trained on the heated discussion happening a few feet away.
Peter and Mohinder are arguing about him again.
He can hear the bickering going back and forth, a statement is made about how he can’t be controlled, which is then countered by Peter’s ridiculous excuses to keep him around. It goes on and on until they’re both too pissed or frustrated with each other to even speak.
The first few days he finds it amusing, up until Mohinder starts threatening boycott and their arguments become tedious immaturity. It usually ends with Mohinder giving him an indecent glare over Peter’s shoulder before stalking off and Peter’s lethal warning towards his malicious grin.
---
He can’t help but notice the visible tension in the room whenever a siren blares past. How each muscle flexes and jaws grind together. He can practically hear oxygen being sucked down and held, and how heartbeats can beat so furiously against their ribcages.
He supposes that he should feel guilty.
Afterall, it was with his help, that the once hushed government manhunt had turned into an all out blood bath; a movement the national news had deemed the ‘modern witch trials’. The entire world knew about them now and while concentration camps were being built across the globe to house people like them, Sylar couldn’t help but scoff at the irony.
Peter had taken on the rebellion, equating it to a revolution but even he couldn’t deny their situation was becoming eerily similar to those concentration camps located miles away.
It was just missing the torture.
---
They don’t go outside; and when they do, they’re paired up like some childish buddy system. One day, someone made the error of pairing him up with a cocky brunette with a barrier power.
Big mistake.
They found her body a few meters away, skull unceremoniously slashed. The action had earned him tense expressions, zero respect and much to his displeasure, a bodyguard.
---
He’s not allowed to talk to anyone, not that they would talk back. They’re all so terrified of him in the first place but it doesn’t sate the need for communication. Peter’s practically castrated him: no powers, no communication, no killing. He wonders if the notion of him snapping has crossed his mind yet, if it has, he hasn’t shown it by lifting any restrictions.
His new powers he treats fickly. The prospect of appearing as someone else has passed his intrigue and has further put a strain on its use. He can’t use it here either. Everyone knows each other and the suggestion of seeing a new face, let alone a duplicated one, would only cause havoc.
Barriers, on the other hand, seem like a complete waste of ability.
---
Everyone watches him.
In all honesty, he’s not surprised. If he were them, he’d probably watch him too but the most lingering gazes come from Peter and Mohinder. Coincidentally, those are the only two he’s ever had a conversation with in this place, well, aside from the smug youth he killed days earlier.
He feels it should bother him, being watched so carefully and followed, but it doesn’t. He can understand the reasoning and just because he promised to behave doesn’t mean he’s achieved anyone’s trust.
Trust isn’t earned in a day, week, or even month.
He hopes he isn’t still here by then.
---
“Did you orchestrate all of this?” He asks, fingers crumbling a cracker in his palm. Peter is sitting beside him, body as rigid as his reply, “Someone had to pick up where Micah left off.”
He can’t help it, he laughs. The action is eyed warily by a middle-aged man leaning against a cracked beam and he stops. Peter’s voice doesn’t change though, “Did you even have the decency to stop laughing long enough to kill him or did that meld into the murder too?”
“I was following orders.”
He can feel Peter flinch, biting sarcasm following before he gets up and walks away, “I bet you were.”
---
The man who started this whole ordeal is here. His body hunched and perched on an oil drum, hands clasped between his legs and a once pristine suit now a shamble of rips and tears. His daughter is there too; faked defiant eyes shielding worry and fear as she rakes the crowd with her gaze.
Nathan keeps her at a good distance. His new found concern for anyone’s safety a cause for lifted eyebrows as he drags her along with him wherever he goes. She hasn’t seen him yet, and for that he’s sort of relieved. The last time he saw her, he had been hovering over her exposed brain and spewing monotonous crap and while he was blatantly overdue for retaliation; he thinks she might have more than justice on her mind.
---
“Do you regret it?”
“What?” he sounds ridiculous, and he thinks his voice was a bit too high.
“You heard me.” The abrupt response was just that, abrupt. Sylar has to admit that seeing Mohinder as angry as he’s been the past few days has made him cautious. He doesn’t acknowledge it though, just looks up at him and responds.
“Do you mean, by being a human weapon and killing countless innocents?”
“No, by manipulating your way into making this an all out war.”
“You know my answer.” If Mohinder can use abrupt answers, so can he.
“So that’s how you’re going to reply, by assuming everyone knows your motives and that there isn’t a need for explanation. You asked for refuge, asked for our help and all we got in return was a dead girl and shoddy behavior.”
“Mohinder, shut up.” It was a crass and immature reply and he paused, straightening a bit, “when have I ever been repentant? It’s who I am… you should be used to it by now.”
The man just stares at him, disbelief painted on his face before turning away and leaving the conversation just as mad as he had entered.
It’s all a lie though. He does regret it, every day. He regrets ever thinking he’d find an ally in Danko and living vicariously through the fruition it would have supplied.
As he flicks his gaze over the shaking line of dirtied individuals, his mind backtracks every last move he made with him, how he should have seen the betrayal coming from a mile away and how, out of sheer luck, he had managed to get away.