Worse Was Yet To Come
Title: Worse Was Yet To Come
Characters: Claire Bennet, Samson Gray
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence, gore, disturbing imagery, allusion to rape
Genre: Horror
Words: 950
Setting: Post Brave New World
Summary: After Claire's big reveal by leaping off the Ferris wheel, her identity and her ability become public knowledge, attracting some unwanted attention from the likes of one Samson Gray. She must relive a horror, but unfortunately the worst is yet to come.
Notes: Beta by dancingdragon3 (thank you!) I'm taking a few small liberties with Claire's power.
It was happening all over again, but this time it was so much worse. She'd had nightmares ever since Sylar's assault on her, finding her dream self trapped in her house again, hunted and stalked by an impossibly tall, shadowy form who menaced her from everywhere and nowhere. Nothing she did stopped him. She would stab him, slice him, batter and bludgeon him, catch him on fire or throw boiling water on him - all useless. Futile. She'd end up pinned to the wall anyway, kicking and struggling and reliving the sensation she had right now, the sensation of the top of her skull being methodically separated from the rest of her body.
But this was not Sylar.
Her assailant had blended in so well with the throngs of petitioners and reporters. There had been so many once she made clear what her ability was. She'd quickly been overwhelmed and in less than a day had to hire an agent, then a staff of them, to help field inquiries and look after her interests. She didn't blame them for this lapse. The old man could barely walk, oxygen tank trailing along next to him when he wheezed pathetically into the hotel suite she'd rented while she was staying in New York to deal with the media firestorm. But despite his failing health, he had an engaging, charming manner that had fooled her into inviting him inside, promising to listen to his story and see if she could help. He had been a predator in camouflage, slinking through the tall grass until he caught her away from the herd. He'd laughed about what easy prey she was.
Sylar had not laughed at her.
And even though Sylar had cut open her head so very much like this, she'd been able to fight. She hadn't felt this bone-deep lassitude, this feeling of resignation even while her conscious, rational mind railed against it. She hadn't felt so powerless, like her body had surrendered on her behalf and was yearning for what was happening to her. Begging for it.
No, when Sylar had done it, her muscles had strained and burned as she tried desperately to find a weakness in the telekinesis. Now she was utterly relaxed, limbs leaden, terrifying beyond any of her nightmares and it was so much worse. Her imagination had failed to fathom how bad it could get. The old man sniggered to himself as the flesh of her forehead parted and the bone separated with a shrill screech. She could handle the sound of her body being violated. It was the half-heaving, half-rasping chortling that churned her stomach. He was enjoying this way too much.
Hot blood flowed across her brow and over her temples, pooling in her ears and dripping past to the coffee table. Why was it always a coffee table? She didn't know. She felt the sucking pop as the skullcap was pulled away, and the cool brush of air against parts never meant to be exposed. A moment later, she gasped unexpectedly, a visceral, involuntary reaction that slid past the tranquilizing effect he'd used on her earlier. His fingers dug within her and she didn't need the nerve endings she didn't have inside her brain to know that he was being rough - clumsy, forceful and brutish.
Sylar had been so careful.
She felt so helpless, so defeated, so beaten. While she'd ultimately failed against Sylar, she'd at least had the satisfaction of burying a butcher knife in his chest. Her resistance had been active, not passive. She wasn't even resisting at all right now, despite her desire to do so. She just lay there limp and compliant, body twitching occasionally as the old man gouged into her grey matter, grubbing through it like a kid shoving aside the cereal for the toy at the bottom of the box. She heard a few wet, squishy plops. He wasn't even bothering to keep her intact.
She knew when he had it, when he'd harvested what he came for. He moaned rudely like a man coming, entirely self-absorbed, lost in the moment like a rutting animal. She wished she could shut her eyes and shudder. She wished even more that she could not hear. She felt filthy, and used. But it was over at least. He had what he'd come for. Her body would put itself back together now. She would get help and he would pay.
But not yet.
He seemed in no hurry to leave. Instead he leaned to the side as spasms of coughing racked him. The noises he made were wet and phlegmatic, sounding like he was on the verge of vomiting. He hacked and gasped and spat copiously on the hotel room floor as his lungs grossly cleared themselves. It was revolting to listen to and he made no attempt to shield her from it, his face just inches from her ear. He shuffled around her and into her field of vision. He was the last thing she wanted to see. There was nothing of charm, grace or poise about his features now. He raised his bloodied hand to wipe the sputum from his lips, inadvertently smearing a black, congealing clot into his scraggly, graying beard.
He chuckled again, looking down at her smugly. "Ah, you may not be the cure for cancer, but at least this beats it into remission." He drew in a deep, unhindered breath, reveling in the simple, intoxicating draught of air. "There's so much more I am capable of now." His lascivious gaze slid gradually down her enervated form, crudely undressing her with his eyes. It was metaphorical at first … then literal.
She had never wished so fervently for Sylar's disinterest.