shatterverse | (no subject)

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gabriel gray (sylar)

(no subject)

There may be plenty of things to complain about, but all in all Sylar has come out of this situation on top.

Not so long ago he was a ghost, barely conscious, barely even tangible, haunting a stinking alley in a decimated city. The decimated city part hasn't changed, and he's now occupying the body of a young woman who can shoot fireworks of all things, and he's lodging with the most insufferable man he's ever met without looking in a mirror -- but that's still a body, and that's still a home, and he still has the delicious intuitive knowledge that tells him he can rebuild his lost collection.

He even knows what he's going to begin with.

Well, what did you think he was doing with his days, if not lurking about and stalking innocent phasers?

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Hey, less of the 'innocent' there, please. You think she's sliding out of the wall of this store with her arms full of cans and packages out of the goodness and general charitable nature of her heart?

You could really only claim that she was being charitable to her own stomach. But everyone's gotta live somehow, right?

She's picked an excellent place to slip out without being spotted. No-one comes back here behind the stores on any kind of regular basis, and the curve of the alley is such that no-one here can be seen from the street.

Sucks to be her, then.

"Evening."

Sylar brought a knife (in the pocket of the long canary-yellow coat, his fingers curled around the handle) and a hammer and chisel (similarly secreted, though not held). What did this girl bring?

...Chicken soup and baked bean cans.

Alison* freezes, eyes fixed on the strange young woman lurking there with her hands in her pockets. She's sure there must be some situation that it would be more incriminating to be caught in, but she'd have to think long and hard to come up with one.

"...Evening?"

*No, this narration is not stealing another character's journal to roleplay a redshirt. How dare you even suspect us of this. Oh the insult. Oh the humanity.

Sylar seems to have forgotten that in this body he's not actually intimidating, but never mind. We're sure anyone could be intimidating with a fifteen-inch serrated breadknife.

And he may not have the same face, but he can pull off the same laser-focused, fascinated, interrogative stare.

"I hope you paid for those," he says levelly, already moving forwards, wasting no time. This is going to have to be like Brian Davis' murder -- the first, horribly intimate murder, like every new one will be until he finds another telekinetic or something analogous -- and he wants it to be quick.

"I, uh--"

Phasing through the wall again? High risk of getting caught by the shop's owners. Running? Difficult, while she's carrying everything, and she doesn't want to leave her spoils behind. Alison hesitates, biting her lip.

A laugh, slightly strained.

"I'm joking."

He's close enough now to stab, but the food is in the way of a clear aim. He's fairly sure he's only going to get one chance here. Time to pause.

Just smile and nod. Smiiiile and nod.

"Okay," crazy girl, "I'll just, uh..."

She inches sideways, freeing herself from the space between Sylar and the wall, and turns a little to walk away--

--which puts her at a perfect angle for Sylar to pull the knife from his pocket in this short smooth movement;

tighten his too-slender fingers on the handle, like so;

turn his body like this and his arm like this to get as much weight behind the blade as possible;

and, holding it low so that she doesn't see the glint of the reddening sun against the blade, sink it swiftly into her side, intestines, stomach, like this.

what shit shit fuck shit what shit fuck what

She screams. Tins and parcels make flat and rattling noises on the damp concrete ground, and she screams, and every muscle in her body seizes up; it would be inaccurate to say that her first thought is to run or to fight or to phase, because there is no first thought, only screaming and a burning in her torso.

Sylar doesn't stop, because by this point, Sylar isn't looking at a person any more. The intuitive aptitude always forces some degree of separation -- it's hard to really emphasize with someone when to you they are a wheeling construct of muscle and blood and bone and the passages between them -- and at times like this, when he looks, when he really really looks, there genuinely is no difference between shoving a knife into a shrieking girl's gut and prising open the back of a temperamental timepiece.

Messier, sure, but he can worry about that afterwards. Right now he's dragging the knife out, the serrations snagging on flaps of skin and torn muscle, and swinging it up to draw a bright red fountain from her throat.

The scream gutters and dies.

The girl does not take long to follow it.

Then it's the turn of the hammer and chisel, breathless, his heart rate still building, his skin tingling as if touched by electricity, her skin breaking easily, the same horrible wonderful intimacy as the first kill and an echo of the epiphany that went with it, a ragged, jagged break encircling the late lamented Alison's skull.

This narration is sure that you, the reader, can make an educated guess as to what happens next.

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