Gabriel Gray (
watchmakers_son) wrote in
milliways_bar2007-10-06 10:44 pm
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Sylar hasn't eaten anything, ordered by himself or not, since walking into Milliways a few days ago and finding it teeming with animals that didn't (tICk) quite sound like (ttticK) animals.
Sometimes, however, precaution only goes so far. Especially if it's precaution in the wrong direction.
During one particular long and barren stretch of highway in rural Ohio, Mohinder, with the passion of a true professor, spent fifteen minutes describing in a rapid-fire cadence how the cockroach was the pinnacle of the evolutionary ladder. Strangely enough, Sylar isn't deriving much comfort from that at the moment.
What he's doing instead is perching on a chair back, motionless save the wary twitching of his antennae, as he struggles to interpret his new senses.
[ooc: eep! I love you all, but please no more new threads. *drowns*]
Sometimes, however, precaution only goes so far. Especially if it's precaution in the wrong direction.
During one particular long and barren stretch of highway in rural Ohio, Mohinder, with the passion of a true professor, spent fifteen minutes describing in a rapid-fire cadence how the cockroach was the pinnacle of the evolutionary ladder. Strangely enough, Sylar isn't deriving much comfort from that at the moment.
What he's doing instead is perching on a chair back, motionless save the wary twitching of his antennae, as he struggles to interpret his new senses.
[ooc: eep! I love you all, but please no more new threads. *drowns*]
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Voices have a peculiar frequency of vibration all their own. It isn't hearing, but he's beginning to figure out a rudimentary way of understanding them.
Or parts of them, at least.
He edges back a step.
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"Get out," he snarls, antennae thrashing as he backs up further. "Stop."
He's disgustingly vulnerable as is. He won't have it become more so.
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"You are horridly paranoid."
She was not trying to think that he deserved being a cockroach.
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"I know you," he says at last. "Don't I."
It's very uncertain, far more than it would ever be if he were human.
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Allie said very simply, her lips pursed in an almost annoyed formation.
"But you have met me once."
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"I saw what you were," he says, venturing a step toward her. "Just as you saw what I was."
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But, just the same, it is still felt.
"And what did you see?"
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Softer, and still with that sharp edge to it.
"Is what you saw."
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And then there's another pause.
His memory, in this body, isn't as strong: details are blurred and inconstant, like studying them through a heat haze. But he can remember that there was something else different about this one.
Something, even then, he didn't fully understand.
His antennae twitch to one side, mimicking the familiar head tilt. "You're different. Even from the way the others are. How is that?"
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And everything in his head and his time seems distorted by whatever distorted his body.
"Same as you. It's the way I was born."
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"There's more to it than that."
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"Like what?"
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manorthopterous insect."Another stage of evolution humanity isn't ready to grasp."
Which was so partial to why she couldn't stay among them.
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"Do you know how many others I could say the same about?" he asks her.
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"If they're unable to grasp it," he says. "Something that simple; that clear. Then I see no reason why I shouldn't."
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Beat.
"They just need time."
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She corrected.
"It's a temporally imperative your not willing to wait for. It's a choice."
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I want my son.
The last person who had said that to Sylar was Frank Black.
What did you do with my son?
Very, very softly -- and utterly furious -- he answers, "Maybe so.
"But it's a far better choice than others I've made."
And that said, he whirls around, skittering away into the shadows underneath the table.
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He was quite right about that.