milliways_bar | (no subject)

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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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There is someone (or three someones, if you count the puppies) out by the lake. Two of the three are bedraggled and soaked. The third one is tossing a floating ball into the lake over and over for the amusement of the puppies.

They have a new vote for best game ever.

He stops a reasonable distance away and watches the antics.

It makes him think of Jordan, playing with Benny. The lines in Frank's face deepen.

I should go back. I don't even know how I got here -- how long have I been here?

Someone notices.

It's gotten..."easier" isn't the right word. Voices are still too loud; quiet sounds still spike to deafening levels with no warning. But Sylar's body is beginning to adapt to its newest change, enough for him to spend more time indoors without being completely crippled by pain.

Seated at a table by the observation window, his eyes snap to Frank Black the instant he walks out of the infirmary. Part of it is recognition, remembering.

Part of it is something else

tick, tick, tick, tick

he can hear beneath it, as clear as Simon and Kaylee Tam, as clear as anybody he's seen back home.

Fix yourself, Axel said. And Adam Kaufman, describing the man who had told him about what Sylar could do: Forties, maybe. White. Brown hair.

Sylar smiles. Quietly, once Frank has stepped outside, he pushes his chair back and follows.

"Hallo." the man calls out at the scent of another person, turning to match a name to the smell, "Nice day, innit?"

"Looks like."

Frank starts to nod agreement and then winces, raising his hand to his temple.

As he does, he notices that his hands are battered, cut and bruised.

So does Spoon. Damage is something he watches out for. There are dual spikes in his mind; an instinctive predatory interest and a equally rapid no followed by groping around for the meditative techniques he's been learning. "You're hurt, sir."

It's quieter outside, and something in his manner relaxes as he steps from the noise of the bar into the relative peace.

The early evening is cool and pleasant. Frank starts toward the lake, following a small path that leads towards a rock outcropping.

I've got to figure out what happened. Why can't I remember?

Lost in his own thoughts and concerns, he's not paying much attention to his surroundings.

"Your daughter's very talented, agent."

He's stopped a dozen yards behind Frank, holding himself still. Sylar angles his head as his smile widens.

It's unmistakable, in the quiet.

Tick.

"I'll be all right."

(wolf blood prey)

His eyes narrow, slightly. Frank holds himself very still.

"Vegetarian." Spoon says absently, following it up with, "Uh. Tensing up like that? Not a good thing to do. Hits the wrong buttons." He nods, though, at being told that Frank is going to be alright, then bends to collect the ball from Raisa.

Frank spins around, instantly.

"You."

Already bruised and cut hands clench helplessly into fists at his sides.

"Stay away from my daughter."

"Good to know," he says, after a moment.

"It's hereditary, isn't it?" he asks, casual, as if Frank had said nothing at all; Sylar takes a measured step forward, then another. "Genetic. What she can do."

"What makes you think she can do anything?" he counters. Frank stays still, watching the other man.

(He doesn't have a gun. He doesn't carry one unless he absolutely has to.)

"She's a six-year-old girl with a vivid imagination and who likes to play games."

A pause.

"And she's not from your world."

"Neither are you."

Tick. Tick.

"She could see what I was." An acknowledging nod, as he leans his head the other way. "So can you."

Another step, and his voice drops to a whisper.

"And I can see what you are."

(tick, tick, TICK)

Frank's gaze meets Sylar's, levelly.

"This is who we are."

A beat.

"Not what."

"'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.

There's another moment of silence, then Spoon shrugs and taps his nose, "Can smell the tenseness. I'm a werewolf. Vegetarian werewolf. Can't help the instincts, but I don't have to let them control me either. Don't actually like looking at meat." (Too many times the meat was bits of me.)

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.

"Werewolf. Like--"

That's as far as he gets before his eyes widen again.

(blood snarls screams sword flashing people torn apart by tooth and claw needles in veins howling as silver burns)

He has only enough presence of mind left to stuff his own hand in his mouth and bite down, trying to stop the spill of words.

"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--"

"Uh." Spoon says, eyes going wide. Then he's scrambling (inside) for the flame and void. If nothing else it'll help him deal with the guy who is, apparently, not dealing, "Werewolf. Yeah. Uh. Do you need help?"

Stepan! Come on out of there and shake off, I may need you to run a note for me.

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