milliways_bar | (no subject)

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(no subject)

When he wakes up, it's to find himself lying on a bed in a room he doesn't recognize-- but it's a matter of seconds at most for him to realize that he's in a hospital somewhere.

(gurney bloody hands let me out snarling faces out restraints let me out man with a broken arm let me out let me out out OUT)

No-- not a hospital. Even as every muscle tenses, Frank recognizes the difference-- this is an infirmary. A clinic, somewhere.

(trial drugs let me out screams and blood experiment gone wrong death)

Something's happened, and he's not sure what. He can't remember. Cautiously, Frank turns his head to one side. There are a few other people here, that he can see, and a man-- (nurse?) --with his back toward Frank, talking quietly with one of them.

Frank takes advantage of their distraction to slip from the bed and then out the infirmary door, at which point he realizes two things. First, he's at Milliways. Secondly, the sheer level of sound from the conversations taking place in the bar is for some reason nearly overwhelming.

He takes a steadying breath, and then moves carefully through the room to the lake door.

It's much quieter outside. Frank gives a sigh of relief and starts slowly for the shore.

[Not plotlocked, but any and all threads are automatically millitimed to well in advance of this one right here. Oh, and on that note? Warning for, uh, probable violence in that thread. Thanks!]

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"'Who,'" he echoes in a mocking hiss. Two more steps, the movement as steady as a clock hand; by his side, Sylar's fingers flex idly.

"Evolution is never that personal, agent."

"This isn't evolution. This is a choice."

The other man has closed half the distance between them, and Frank's very aware of just how volatile this situation has the potential to become.

"Which means that you've made it personal. Haven't you, Sylar?"

There's an odd note of compassion in Frank Black's tone.

"It's not too late."

You made me this way --

"No."

Sylar's voice is very flat, and very calm, but his distant amusement is gone. Something quite like hatred burns in his eyes.

"I see what's broken."

You helped me to discover my true potential, and now you want it to stop --

"And I fix it. Improve it. That isn't a choice. I don't -- " and the calm splits apart into a desperate snarl, "make a habit of letting something fall apart into uselessness."

Insignificance.

The barely-controlled fury radiates out from Sylar with near-tangible force, and triggers an already hypersensitive perception.

(tickticktickTICKTICKticktickTICKTICKTICK)

"Even the smallest pieces. Cogs and gears."

(wheels turning the sound of a clock as blood pours down his face all their faces)

"No stone left unturned. Small changes; fix the broken genome. Attention to detail."

(light rising in a ball in fire flaring burning outward a cloud swelling into the sky shock wave following as the world explodes)

"Split the atom with the neutrons. Tiny changes lead to the chain reaction. Destruction is inevitable."

Frank blinks, staring at him.

"Both of you. Somehow it's both of you."

Sylar doesn't blink

tickticktickticktickticktick

as Frank speaks, his attention pulled away from his voice by another sound entirely. His eyes unfocus, then, instantly, sharpen as he realizes what Frank is saying.

"What is both of us?" he asks softly.

"New York. The explosion."

Frank shakes his head, trying desperately to free himself from the grip of the images, one damaged hand rising to an already-bruised temple.

"You don't--"

Without warning, Sylar snaps one hand closed into a fist and lashes out, flaring his fingers wide.

The telekinetic blow lands squarely on Frank's chest and knocks him backward onto the ground.

"An explosion," he says, each word tightly wound in on itself as he closes the last few yards to stand over him. Sylar can hear his own heartbeat quickening, a timpani thundering against his ears. "What do you mean."

He doesn't know if it's the blow that frees him of the vision or if it was ending anyway, but it doesn't matter.

Frank lands hard, coughing from the force of the blow. Sprawled on his back, he looks up at Sylar.

There's a cold clarity that comes along with the knowledge of real danger. He's felt it before.

"You can stop," he says, quietly. "You said it yourself-- you know the nature of my facility; and I've seen yours, as well as what you do with it."

(tick)

(What do you want, agent?

To stop men like you.)

"It's not an imperative. Not really. You can stop, Sylar. If you do this, it's a decision. Let me help you to make a different one."

He regards Frank in a precisely measured silence, face twisted with rage.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

And then it's gone.

"You can help me," he says, his right hand drifting downward.

Sylar loosely curls all but his index finger to his palm, and points at Frank's forehead.

Peter's in a rush: he hasn't bothered to grab his jacket, he hasn't bothered to throw away the soda bottle still clutched in one fist, and he definitely hasn't bothered to let anyone know that Frank's vanished.

He slips on the damp grass, and has to pause to steady himself.

And then --

(...can help me)

he winces, and his free hand rises to clutch at his forehead.

The rhythm is familiar, even doubled like this. Heartbeats. He can pinpoint the direction, but they sound so close, and there's nobody --

Movement, up ahead.

There's somebody. Peter starts to run.

He can't move-- he can't move, and thanks to his gift, his curse, Frank Black knows far too well exactly what it is that Sylar's about to do to him--

(scalpel-clean slice peel the scalp open the skull empty cavity where the brain was once while the blood pours down)

--and he can't move. Can't do anything, except stare into the eyes of the madman above him.

I'm sorry, Jordan. I'm sorry, Catherine--

Sylar's finger moves, a tiny, precise motion, and the agony is instant and viciously sharp as the blood begins to pour from the cut that starts at his temple.

He yells, hoarse and wordless.

Many yards away, Peter flinches. It's so loud. How is it so loud?

He can see them, now, in the dim light: the crumpled body's covered by a brown coat, and the shape standing over it is all too familiar in black silhouette.

Cold sweat breaks out over Peter's skin.

He's not close enough.

Sylar recoils an inch as well, teeth gritted against Frank's scream. The lacerating pressure against Frank's forehead eases for an instant: it goes no deeper than the skin.

Then it returns, fiercer than before.

Simultaneously, Sylar lifts his other hand, balls it into a fist, and forces Frank's jaw closed to stifle his cries.

His teeth clash together, hard, as his jaw slams shut with the strength of Sylar's power, and the best that he can do is a muffled noise.

He struggles anyway, trying to move at all, trying to break free of the impossible binding force that keeps him pinned, while quick images and memories flash across his mind, finally resolving into one startlingly clear thought.

At least if I die this way-- if he takes my gift, he won't need Jordan-- she'll be safe from him--

People think of motion as a decision. Conscious.

And it's true that the decision to move can be conscious, but the space between your decision to throw the half-empty glass bottle in your hand and the moment the bottle leaves your hand -- that's not you. That's your body. More muscles than you can count doing things you couldn't control even if you knew about them. Athletes come closer; they know some of what they're doing. Dancers, too.

Most people just think about the bottle going forward.

So Peter thinks about the bottle going forward. And Peter shouts, "Hey!" And muscles work along Peter's arm, and Peter's arm draws back, snaps forward, and Peter's fingers open. The body knows what it's doing.

Some bodies have other ways to make bottles go forward.

Peter's throw is barely worthy of a high school baseball game; he's running, he's way out of practice, and he's clumsy with panic.

But the bottle hits the back of Sylar's head so hard it shatters.

Sylar's head cracks forward with the impact, and the rest of him follows in a clumsy stagger as he cries out hoarsely. Concentration gone, he claps a hand to the back of his head -- blood slicks his skin and hair -- and whirls around.

Head trauma can lead to a loss of coordination: he stumbles into the spin and almost overbalances.

And when he sees who it is --

Sylar's eyes are nearly black with fury.

"You."

Shards of glass settle to the grass, glinting where they aren't stained with Sylar's blood. The (too loud) clinking as they land is almost melodious.

Peter skids to a halt about ten feet away, eyes rolling white in the darkness. They can both hear his heart racing.

Released from the invisible grip, Frank rolls to his side, scrambling up to his hands and knees and then freezing in shock as he stares at the two men.

(both of them both)

Adrenaline surges through him, mingling with the lingering traces of mesmertine hydrochloride in his system and triggering a cascade effect as the world begins to alter in front of his eyes.

(shapes shadows burning fire and ice and everything goes white with the explosion)

Peter doesn't have time to catch his breath before Sylar curves the fingers of his free hand.

The ground's still tilting dangerously underneath his feet, dizziness distorting his awareness (and at the same time, a mass of ticking explodes behind him -- or is it in front of him?), but the telekinetic punch to Peter's stomach lands solidly enough.

Peter doubles over with a grunt of pain, but he doesn't fall. And after a moment, he starts to straighten, slowly.

If training with Claude's prepared him for anything, getting punched in the stomach is it.

(a high school staircase under a ticking clock as shadows pour down blood pools bodies fall from the height above)

He's shaking his head, even as every muscle begins to tremble. His heart begins racing as his nervous system reacts, pushing him to fight, pushing him to flee, pushing him--

(SylarPeterSylarPeterSylar)

As Peter recovers, Sylar brings his other hand around to look at the blood shining near-black on his palm. The ticking behind him is getting louder, faster, careening upward like a racing heart.

(He can see so clearly how it works, how easy it would have been -- )

Closing his hand, he looks up at Peter, and two more blows hit in rapid succession: one to the head, the other to his feet.

He lands hard.

When he lifts his head, wheezing, he sees the man in the brown coat. Still there.

"Get out of here." Peter's voice is ragged, and not very loud. "Get help."

(out out let me out get out get out get help help a cure help)

A low, guttural sound comes from his throat, and Frank scrambles to his feet, then bolts toward the bar.

All of Sylar's attention has turned to Peter.

He'll deal with the agent later.

A handful of rocks scattered across the lake shore surge upward into the air, and, like a swarm of insects, rush toward Peter, fast enough to kill.