milliways_bar | (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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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.

Peter looks around once more, blinking. There's blood on the grass, and fragments of glass, and a string of rocks where he lay. "Shit," he says, "litter," and shakes his head, and makes a beeline for the lake door.

The main room is as crowded and noisy as it was when they came through minutes ago.

Sylar's nowhere to be seen.

That smile. And the way his hand moved, that lifting gesture as the shards of glass rose and hovered and poised to fly, like the tiny circling gesture that made his coffee mug spin around on the bartop, a tiny motion, harmless --

Simon scans the room for him, and doesn't say a word.

River just closes her eyes.

Her shoulders drop slightly, and with the gesture her whole body sags a little in sudden exhaustion.

Her lashes are damp, from the unshed tears of a few minutes ago or from new ones.

Peter takes a few steps past them, searching the corners and the more poorly lit sections of the bar.

Nothing.

He breathes out, a little shakily, and rubs his face.

"Frank said to stop him."

There doesn't seem to be anything to say to that.

"We should go," he says gently -- half to River, half to Peter.

"Khef."

River's eyes don't open.

She nods, a few moments later, though she doesn't move yet.

"Yeah," says Peter, gaze still sweeping the room. "See you, I guess."

Simon glances sharply at River at that word, unnerved, and then back at Peter.

"Take care," he says, and takes River's hand to head for the front door, and home.

He's got to talk to Kaylee.