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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And in the same instant, Sylar realizes.

The sound of parts slotting into place, turning and ticking with steady, familiar regularity -- it hadn't stopped when Frank bolted.

The ground has steadied under his feet, though he can still feel the wet heat of blood dribbling down his neck. Sylar heaves in a breath and

tickticktickticktick

stares, uncomprehending, at Peter, and at the rocks as they tumble downward.

The entire time, that weekend, when he was trapped in Milliways.

He'd been in a body like Sylar's own.

It's uncannily like before, although he's in no state to recognize it. Frank hits the lake door with both hands, slamming it open.

He doesn't notice the pain as the only slightly-healed wounds break open again; he doesn't see the smear of blood left on the door. Frank jerks to a stop, staring wildly around the room.

(blood pouring faces monsters screaming murder death fire help get help out help away out)

He doesn't recognize anyone, not like this. Everywhere he looks, he sees monsters and murderers, faces slashed by shadow and too-bright light, mouths juddering open in wild snarls of hate and raucous laughter.

(laughing shrieking wailing bleeding dying)

He has to find help, but there's no help to be found here, not that he can see. Instinct takes over, and Frank stumbles across the room to the front door, dragging it open and staggering through on his desperate search for aid.

It closes behind him.

Simon closes the front door behind them, his free hand resting on River's shoulder to guide her along with him. "We'll need to--" he's saying to her, when the lake door slams open hard enough to rebound off the wall. Frank stumbles through, bloody and wild-eyed.

River only half-hears Simon's slight gasp, his louder words to her and Frank both.

She's already running.

It's not so loud anymore.

He can hear Sylar's startled breath, and his own rapid breathing. A full symphony of sound, in fact -- water lapping against the shore; leaves rustling, yards away; even the sound of the mild breeze whistling through jagged glass. But it's no longer overwhelming.

Peter pushes himself to his feet, slowly. His eyes are wide; his jaw is set.

River scarcely slows down as they pass Frank Black, making for the back door. Simon tries to stop him, but when Black lurches away from him and vanishes through the front door, he turns to run after his sister.

She's several yards ahead of him when he emerges from the bar and into the night, making for the lake at a dead run.

The glass.

It's still scattered at his feet, and a few of the shards are still large enough to use; Sylar pulls them airborne with one hand, reaching to feel the cuts on the back of his head again with the other, listening, hard, to see Peter in the growing dark.

He smiles.

And then he hears the thump of someone (two someones) running in the grass, two more heartbeats thudding.

The glass falls as Sylar jerks his head toward the noise -- and locks eyes with Simon Tam.

That smile --

"Sylar?"

And as he says the name, he registers the identity of the other man in the scene: Peter Petrelli, glancing at them briefly and without apparent recognition.

One step sideways puts her between Simon and Sylar. River's breath is coming fast; her whole body is taut, poised, waiting.

There's a rock in her hand.

"Isn't yours."

Her eyes are only on Sylar: intent and focused, and just this side of wild.

"Not today, Gabriel."

"--what?"

Simon's head snaps around to stare at his sister.

His attention snapped to River when she began to speak. The smile's gone.

(It's been gone ever since he saw Simon, but now -- )

At first, it could be described as fascination, the way he stares at her. Very nearly awe. He sees River (tiCk), and hears her, and all he thinks at first is How is it possible for someone like you to exist?

Then her last word hits like a physical strike, and the reaction is instantaneous.

"No."

It doesn't sound like a word. It's too rough and guttural, twisted by loathing into something incomprehensible.

Shoving them aside to clear the way, Sylar bolts, straight for the door to the main bar.

Peter takes a few steps after him and stops, swaying.

"Have to stop him," he says, and reaches up to touch his forehead. There's a bump rising under his fingers, and as the adrenaline floods out of his body, pain hammers in to replace it. His face twists.

Simon steps closer to him as he sways, puts out a hand toward him. "Careful --"

He's just a little shaky on his own feet. The shove, felt but not seen, pushing him and River out of Sylar's way, unsteadied him in more ways than one.

"Are you all right?"

River lurched sideways with the shove, caught herself with a quick step, and turned the motion into a rapid spin. She stares after Sylar, wavering on the edge of something -- of flight, of attack, of something swift and irrevocable.

"Came to me broken," she whispers, staring into the rectangle of light that is the lake door at dusk. "Maximize your genetic potential. What I will do..."

The rock falls from her hand with a dull thud that seems very loud in the twilight.

"Fine," Peter says, dropping the hand from his forehead. It's starting to shake. "Did you see -- I don't know his name." To River: "From the infirmary?"

"Frank Black." Simon's nodding. "He came running through just as we were coming in -- that's why we came out here --"

In an unconscious echo of Peter's gesture, he puts up a hand to rub the side of his forehead. "What happened?"

"Knives in his hands."

Slowly, slowly, River's head turns.

"We're trying to achieve the next step in evolutionary potential." Her voice is soft and blank; it makes her sound strangely young. "Hold still. He'll make you better."

"All you have to do is die." There, at last, is the first betraying quiver.

"I came outside," Peter says, staring down at the shards of glass, "and Frank was on the ground. Screaming." His voice is flat, breathless. "I don't -- I don't know what Sylar was doing, but there was blood on his head, Frank's head."

His hands flex.

"I threw my soda bottle at his head."

Simon's moved back a step, closer to River, putting a hand on her shoulder. He follows Peter's gaze down to the broken glass, and yes, there are enough largeish pieces to see that there was a bottle shape in there once.

"Go on," he says quietly.

He can't get the image of Sylar's smile

(like nothin' was wrong)

out of his head.

"Circular craniotomy," River whispers, staring at the (blood) dark grass.

"Pin back the scars. They're all in my head." Unshed tears clog her voice now, making it high and small. "Oh God. Empty me out, I will empty you out. And we will be as gods among the cockroach nest..."

He lifts a hand to cut off Simon's answer, a moment too late.

"Wait. Before I do. Are you gonna believe me? Or are you gonna say maybe it wasn't him, maybe somebody framed him?" River gets a quick sharp glance before he looks back at Simon. "Because if you are --"

The bump on his forehead is visibly shrinking, faster than it rose; a moment and the skin is perfectly smooth.

Simon's eyes flick back up to Peter's, and he draws back a little further, his chin coming up.

"I suppose I earned that," he says, a little thinly. "No ... I don't imagine I'll be saying anything of the sort this time."

River's head has snapped up, and she's glaring at Peter.

The tears standing in her eyes mar the effect somewhat.

Peter doesn't notice River's reaction.

"Good," he says, shortly, and, "He -- hit me, a few times." His fingers brush his forehead again, but there's nothing there. "Without touching me. Knocked me over. And then...Frank got away. He flew these rocks at me, I think they would've killed me, but I stopped them. He was gonna do it again with the glass, that's when you showed up."

He takes a step toward the bar; it's unsteady. "We have to go after him."

A glance at River.

"If he kept running once he was inside, he's long gone by now. If he didn't ..."

Simon draws in breath, and lets it out again.

"All right," he says. "Let's go see."

"He'll show you," River whispers, and flinches slightly with an indrawn breath.

"I can find you," she says to the grass. "This is who we are."

Her chin lifts, and she takes a slow step forward. And then another, more steadily, and the next quicker still.