Fic- Whatever it takes 23

[faythbrady]

Title: Whatever it takes 23
Author- faythbrady
Show/Ship: Heroes, Sylar/Claire
Disclaimer: I own a cool Sylar poster and a cheerleader outfit but that's about it.
Rating: T
Summary: A morning visit from Angela followed by an afternoon helping Noah, this day was just getting better and better. 
A/N: Here is where i'd usually apologize for not having updated in a while. But I'm not going to. Yeah, how'd ya like that? Rebellion!

Chapter 23

The Lindeman Bi-tower was a tall brick building with a metallic transmitter on top. It had been one of the first of its kind and was installed before the beautification and disguising of such towers. In its time it had transmitted wireless talk shows, messages of war, piped music and, more recently, had been up-fitted to transmit wireless feed.

None of that stopped it from being ugly.

Sylar watched as Noah Bennet yelled something into his phone and stalked over, his expression hard and unwelcoming.

“You wanted me?” Sylar beamed brightly, knowing full well that Noah would only have called him as a last resort.

Noah gritted his teeth. “We've got Micah Saunders currently running interference so Derek can't make the transmission but it will only hold him off for so long.”

“Derek?”

“Derek DeMille, brother of Echo DeMille.” Noah's tone was smug.

Sylar looked at him blankly.

“You slit his throat when you broke out of Level 5.”

The blank look remained.

“Three men told they could have their freedom if they killed you. You killed two... none of this is ringing any bells with you is it?”

Sylar just shrugged. “Can't say it is.”

“I suppose once you've murdered as many people as you have it's hard to keep track of them all, isn't it?”

Sylar stared him down. “When I reach your body count I'll let you know.”

They glowered at each other, real hate swelling in between them. Despite his conversation with Claire about the possibility of him and Noah being best buds in some alternate dimension, in this one they were firmly entrenched as bitter enemies.

Noah Bennet had been there and had instigated practically every single step of Gabriel Gray's descent into madness and been at almost every single milestone since.

He'd seen Sylar's first kill. He'd instigated the second. He'd helped Elle break his heart. He'd chased him through Texas, he'd been there for all the important kills right up to Claire. Then he'd captured and tortured him. Experimented on him, shot, stabbed, and poisoned him. Again and again and again he'd betrayed Sylar all to keep him away from his daughter.

And now Sylar could still taste the delectable ex-cheerleader who wanted to keep him safe from her dad. Life was just fun sometimes and even irony had its place.

“I'd say be careful, but I really hope he kills you,” Noah snarled.

Sylar smirked. “If I had feelings, and I gave a rat's ass what you thought, I'd be hurt.”

Noah merely curled his lip and walked away.

The tower had undergone so many renovations that the insides had an oddly mismatched appearance. Sixties architecture with eighties design. Early forties artwork with a nineties flare.

It was like a history museum threw up and all the crap landed here.

Sylar's innate sense of style prodded at him to do the world a favor and 'Sprague' the joint.

Maybe when he was done with DeMille he'd destroy the tower for fun.

He managed to get right to the top of the tower without being detected or stopped which really made him feel sad for the future of villainy.

When he had held up a building, there had been no way that they would have made it in as far as he had. When he had hijacked Claire that time he had monitored all frequencies, watched all surveillance tapes, kept the FBI out and managed to screw with their heads, all without them finding him; if it hadn't been for his overwhelming urge to rip Angela apart with his bare hands he'd probably have killed them all off without ever leaving his room.

Impulse control had always been a problem with him.

Sylar paused outside the control room door, closing his eyes and allowing his senses to work away. DeMille was alone and swearing in a way that would have had Luke confined to his room for a month. Apparently little Micah Saunders was still every inch the little techno-whiz he had always been and had managed to jam the frequency or stop the transmission or whatever it was that he had to do to make DeMille's plan not work.

Now it was up to Sylar to stop him.

He took a deep breath and hovered into the room, his feet silently floating about an inch above the floor. The room was set out like a Trekkie's wet dream with a huge curved console that wouldn't have looked out of place on the Enterprise. There were enough shiny pieces and gadgets to hold anyone's interest and the Intuitive Adaptability part of Sylar just wanted ten minutes and a screwdriver to uncover all of the marvelous workings of that machine.

Sadly he had ten minutes and one pissed off Special to deal with before he could even think of that.

DeMille had his back to Sylar and was methodically making his unhappiness felt by kicking the crap out of the console.

As one booted foot landed too close to the central processor Sylar winced.

“Hey, that equipment is delicate and antiquated and worth so much more than you.”

DeMille spun on his heel, his hands raised and, too late Sylar saw the gun he had been holding in front of him.

Bennet had never said anything about a gun.

“Who the hell are you?” DeMille snarled.

Sylar shrugged. “I'm here to offer you a chance to surrender before you get yourself killed.”

DeMille spat on the floor at his feet and told him to do something anatomically impossible... unless you were Claire Bennet and could remove certain parts of your body.

And were friends with a goat.

Sylar blinked. “Points for creativity. But you have to know that there is no way out of this. They will not let you expose us.”

“Us?” DeMille grinned maliciously. “You think you're anything like me, asshole?”

“No,” Sylar allowed his own smirk to filter through. “I'm better.”

“Try this, GO AWAY!” As DeMille poured his sound manipulation into his voice, thick waves of pressure rippled through the air, ramming into Sylar with the force of a freight train and Sylar was hurled backwards into the wall.

He felt his head crack against the brick and swiftly mend itself. The wall was more damaged than his body and he managed to stand up without wavering, leaving a slick puddle of blood on the floor.

DeMille frowned, probably wondering why Sylar hadn't been knocked unconscious.

Sylar merely raised one thick eyebrow. “Is that it?”

DeMille opened his mouth, setting his shoulders for another round.

Sylar beat him to it.

He opened up and let Jesse's power flood through him. It swept across the room like ripples in a pond and slammed into DeMille. DeMille obviously hadn't been expecting to get blasted with his own power and hurtled backwards as if on invisible strings. He slid across the floor ending up face down in the dust.

Sylar cocked his head. “I could have killed you already if that was what I wanted. Surrender, Derek and save yourself the trouble.”

“You think you know the power?” he hissed. “How about this? DESPAIR.”

Sylar swallowed as the question rattled around in his brain. How could he know the power when he had stolen it? All of the abilities he had weren't his by right or by birth, they were his because he had craved and taken them. He was no more than a petty thief; a child taking candy because it belonged to someone else. He was pathetic.

He could never wield the abilities as well as those from whom he had ripped them. And he was fooling himself if he thought that he would ever be anything more than Gabriel Gray watchmaker and pathetic loser. A guy who lived with his mom until he was thirty. A guy whose first true girlfriend turned out to be a secret government agent who wanted him dead.

Did he really think that he was good enough? Good enough for anything let alone Claire?
Claire was going to realize that some day and leave him.

He'd be alone for all eternity.

Sylar's knees buckled with the sudden weight of his thoughts. He staggered as despair filled him, its debilitating effects swamping through him, tugging him down in a maelstrom of depression and angst and...

His healing kicked in and he gasped, the feeling ebbing away. He could think again.

Now that was one neat facet to the ability, one he had never really thought of but, of course, sticks and stones break bones but words have power: manipulate sound- manipulate emotions.
Emotions worked by altering chemicals and neuro-receptors in the brain which meant that utilizing the proper frequency could, arguably, alter emotions.

Fascinating.

Sylar cocked his head. “DELIGHT.”

The beaming smile that broke out over DeMille's face was at odds with his words. “What the hell?”

Sylar stepped closer. “FEAR.”

DeMille swallowed hard, the smile fading from his face.

“Although I really didn't need to use your ability for that one,” Sylar said, coming closer. “Somehow I manage to make people scared enough without it.” He opened his hand and blue sparks flickered over it. “This is your last chance, DeMille. Surrender.”

“I'd rather die,” he hissed and reared up, the gun aimed at Sylar. He fired twice.

Sylar rolled his eyes and the bullets stopped inches away from him, suspended in mid-air by his telekinesis.

DeMille gaped. “What are you?”

“Believe it or not,” Sylar said, “I'm the good guy.”

DeMille dropped to one knee and fired again. Once again, the bullets were halted by Sylar.

But it seemed that DeMille had quite the imagination.

Even as the bullets hovered in mid-air, he hauled back a breath and screeched. The sound echoed around the room, the sonic waves pounding at Sylar's delicate eardrums. The dissonance in the air disrupted his telekinesis and the bullets pounded through, slamming into his body.
Blood poured from the wounds even as the bullet holes began to heal.

Sylar staggered back but DeMille wasn't done yet.

With an odd sound from the back of his throat all of the machinery in the room roared to life, the pitch and volume altering like someone sitting on a remote control.

Then, with a malicious grin DeMille started to hum, low down in his throat. The noise made Sylar pause, it was like the buzzing of flies. He shook his head and stepped forwards but the volume and intensity grew.

It was like bees, like a swarm of bees, race cars, electric fans, static. The buzzing grew and grew until it rattled his teeth and reverberated around his brain.

Hands clapped over his ears, Sylar realized that that DeMille had used his sound manipulation to change the frequency of the equipment; which meant that he could now broadcast. Something that Sylar had to stop at any cost.

He raised his hands and fired electricity at DeMille but the lightning bolts faltered in flow. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

But the high pitched sound was drilling into his brain, the shrill resonance burning his eyes and bouncing around inside his cranium.

He could feel blood trickling out of his nose. His head spun and he reached for the wall, trying to steady himself. He tried to think of a power, any power to neutralize DeMille, but he couldn't think. If he could only think!

He closed his eyes and flew forwards, grabbing DeMille by the hair and yanking him off his chair. DeMille twisted and increased the pitch of his shriek.

Sylar screamed, clutching his head. The last time his head had hurt this bad had been when he'd first got Dale Smithers' power and he could hear the turn of the earth and the marching of ants. He dropped to his knees, bile and vomit rising to the fore as his inner ear affected his balance.
Vertigo spun him around and he curled into a ball, forcing himself not to be sick, not to give up.
The room whirled and colors danced in front of his eyes.

He had to move. DeMille was about to broadcast, he had to get up. But he couldn't tell which way was up and which was down. He closed his eyes together, fighting to overcome this.

“Who the hell are you?”

Sylar could hear DeMille's voice from miles away, foggy and loud, booming into his abused brain.

“I'm the guy that's gonna stop you.”

And suddenly the sound was gone and Sylar could see and hear and breathe again. He gulped in long swallows of air, sucking in vital oxygen.

Weak as a day old kitten he flipped onto his back and his eyes widened as he recognized the second voice.

“Luke?” He croaked, but the boy ignored him, his hand outstretched.

“Uh, I think there's some kind of speech thing about redemption but I'm kinda new at this so I'm just gonna say, dude you suck and uh peace on earth or something.”

DeMille snarled. “What have you done? Why isn't the sonic working?”

Luke grinned cockily. “Because my room-mate is a freaking genius.”

“I'm not going to argue with a kid.” DeMille opened his mouth and roared. “BACK OFF!”

Luke slammed back into the wall, carried on a sail of sound. He dropped to the floor in the same spot Sylar had and landed in a puddle of Sylar's blood.

“Gross,” Luke wrinkled his nose and wiped his hands on his jeans. DeMille obviously thought that the show of power would be enough to stay Luke and he turned back to the console.

Luke, however, was made of sterner stuff and held his hands up, aiming at DeMille.

Sylar's heart sank. “Luke, no!”

“It's all right, Sy,” Luke said confidently. Waves started to emit from Luke's hands and Sylar wanted to close his eyes in despair. He hadn't wanted Luke to kill anyone ever again; how could he be redeemed if his first thought was murder?

“What the-- hey!”

From behind him Sylar heard a shuffle and a pop and then Luke hurried forward.

There was a bang and a sizzle and finally Sylar could move again. He turned over, praying that he wouldn't see what he feared most; a melted pile of human remains and Luke standing proudly over it.

He blinked.

Luke was standing triumphantly but the body was whole and breathing but unconscious. He was also holding a piece of wood like a baseball bat and peering curiously at it.

“Huh, head does sound like watermelon. He's alive, I didn't hit him that hard.”

Sylar swallowed back nausea. “The broadcast?”

Luke smirked. “Oh I stopped that when I came in. According to Sam I'm a microwave transmitter. Did you know that microwaves are just, like, tiny radio waves? Which means I can affect communications satellites and shit... uh stuff like that? I blew up the console and hit him while he was distracted. Sam says I could emit, like, sonic waves and probably get us free cable. Hows that for evolution of powers.” He beamed proudly. “Did I do a good job, Sylar, huh?”

He stood there with bloody hands over a body that wasn't quite as dead as dreamed.

So Angela was wrong. Again. He couldn't wait to tell her.

“Sylar, was that okay, Sylar?”

Sylar laid his head down on the floor and laughed.

-----------------------------------Break---------------------------------------------------

Sylar was still grinning three hours later as he told the story to Emma.

“So much for Angela Petrelli's great prophetic dreams.” He raised a glass.

Emma signed quickly. “Her ability is misleading.”

“No, her ability is fine. It's her who's twisted. She sees danger and pain in everything. If she'd have had her way I would have turned Luke in to the government as a potential threat. Now he's had a taste of being a hero he's twenty times more likely to stick to it. He has a reason now.”

“Girls?” Peter raised an eyebrow.

Sylar shrugged. “It worked for me.”

“Whatever it is, I am glad it worked out.” Emma beamed. “To Luke!”

“To Luke.” They clinked their wine glasses and sipped.

“So, I was thinking we should go out to celebrate. Dinner at that Italian place off Main?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sylar agreed.

They all looked up as there was a knock at the door.

“Hey, don't look at me,” Peter held up his hands. “I got it this morning, and we all know how well that worked out.”

The idea of it being Angela made Emma shiver. “I didn't hear anything.”

“But you saw the light that signified a knock.”

“Nope,” Emma shook he head with a defiant look. “I didn't see anything either.”

Peter was impressed. “Sneaky.”

“I'll get it,” Sylar said with a grin, “and if it's your mom this time she isn't coming in.”

Peter inclined his head. “That's fair.”

Sylar passed through the kitchen and the living room and paused by the door. He half hoped that it was Angela so that he could rub her face in how wrong she had been. He wanted to see her admit- just once- that she was wrong. Of course the chances of that were so remote as to be impossible. But a man could dream.

He opened the door with a smirk, ready with a sarcastic comment. But it wasn't Angela.

“Hey there.”

He looked down at the perky blonde with a tempting smile.

Sylar found himself smiling widely. “Cla-”

“Shh,” she peered over his shoulder into the apartment and, seeing no one, reached up and grabbed his shirt.

She yanked him forwards and down, pulling him out into the hallway and down to her lips.

Once again Sylar felt his world spin as Claire kissed him. The subtle taste of strawberries and coffee and cinnamon mixed with something that was uniquely Claire was as intoxicating to him now as it had been on that Ferris Wheel.

He sank into the kiss, tilting his head and twining his tongue with hers. His fingers drifted into her hair and her nails scratched at his scalp.

Soon, far too soon, she broke the kiss and her eyes drifted open.

“Mm,” she hummed, “I needed that.”

“Glad to oblige.” He licked his lips, savoring the taste.

She let go of his shirt and allowed him to straighten up. She cocked her head and stared at him.
“What?”

“I really want to see you naked.”

His jaw dropped.

With a grin Claire pushed past him leaving him bug-eyed and insensate in the doorway.

“Hey Peter!”

Sylar couldn't move. There was no way she had said what he thought she'd just said. Was there?

“Huh?”

“Claire, hey yourself. We were just gonna head out for dinner, you wanna join us?”

“Sure thing.”

“Great, hey Sy, why are you standing in the doorway?”