Kins Blood (Fic)
Author: Razycrandomgirl
Title: Kins Blood
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 803
Characters/Pairings: Sylar, Maya
Disclaimer: Do not own. Kring can have it.
Spoilers/Time Line: Vol. 2 up to 'Shades of Gray' I guess, but AU
Summery: You can be like me.
Author’s Notes: #5 prompt from my un_love_you table. unbeta'
Sylar walks up to the house, heart in his throat and beating in her ears.
He was here. He was finally going to know the truth, about who he was, the truth about were he came from.
It was cool and quiet inside the house. Everything, the walls, were cover in animal corpses. '... snake fingers?' he wonders.
He shake his head to try and clear it. He needs to be here, now. He has questions that need answers. He was going to get them.
There came a smell from the kitchen. Familiar, but in a strange way. In a way that didn't fit with the memory.
'It doesn't fit.' he thinks. Familiar ... the smells. And a feeling ... like drowning. What is that?
The smells, the warmth, the feeling he can't put his finger on.
...
A flash of dark hair, manic smile, his father tied to a chair?
"Wha-?" He falls to his knees as that old familiar feeling washes over him. Knees scream as they connected with the ground but the pain dies quickly as another stolen power bleeds it away. But he still feels like he's drowning.
"Don't try any tricks you bastard. You stay right where you are." A glint of metal caught in the light and Sylar's eyes widened in horror as Maya presses a blade thick to his father's neck.
"No Maya! Please, God don't!" He tries but the sickness is in him, closing off his air ways. His vision starts to close off and he rocks forward onto his hands catching himself before his face crashes into the floor beneath him.
"God?" Her voice sounds completely different to him, but maybe that is the dying, he thinks morbidly. "Who is the fool now?" she asks
"¿Estas viendo esto, carino?" He does. He watches as she draws the kitchen knife slowly over his fathers throat. The blood spills, and with it all the answers to all the important questions (the only question that ever mattered) evaporates into the dry, dust filled air. And all the strength when out of him.
And into her
This is about her power. Not the one filling his lungs, dragging him under, but the power he stole from her so long ago. Stole with his lies.
Her eyes ...
Their mouths ...
His (fresh bloodied) hands.
She came closer, stepping over the growing puddle of blood and he notices her sneakers. Noticed they where the same ones she wore on the day he left her.
Her laugh is high, manic and grates in his ears. It was nothing like he remembered. Where had the warmth gone? Taken.
'You're nothing like you said you were ...'
He turns over onto his back and looks up at her. Her eyes are as black as coal, but there are no tears. The frightening hysteria there seems to have dried them all up. He lies there listing to sad sounds in his throat, as he rasps for air. She bends low and her hair curtains out above him.
... still so beautiful ...
She smiles a grotesque smile that turns half her face in to a mass of sharp, glistening teeth. She bows her head as he tries to move his hand ... closer. To his surprise she takes it on her own, squeezing it in her own. She brushes his hair back whispering things he cannot understand. There's wetness on his face and he thinks for a moment, with some relief, that she has finally began to cry. But by the pursing of her lips he knows this, too, is a lie.
He watches her -Maya- as she reaches up and pulls out a fist full of her own hair. Then, with that same delirious smile, stuffs the results into his mouth before, spitting on him again.
Angel ...
He wakes suddenly, catching his breath with great alleviation. He sits up and his leg bangs against the door in the back seat of an abandoned car. The dream, already starting to fade from his mind, -not completely, never completely- is the same as most nights. Sylar scrubs his hand over his tired face and isn't very surprised when they catch on the dampness under his eyes.
It is a dream, but the results were real enough. Everyone dead (or dying), by some fatally aggressive sickness that kills the powerless and strips the specials of first their abilities and then there minds. He had no powers only his nightmares, his demons, his madness. Only his normal self. And soon there would be nothing. Nothing but the animals, the madmen and the naked tree branches ...
"Too late." He utters, his throat rough from things he doesn't allow himself to think on. He sniffs ruefully, cradling his head in his hands.
translation(s)
Are you watching, sweetheart?