Broken Pieces


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Scene Title Broken Pieces
Synopsis In the still early morning hours, one person finds her way home. Safe and sound. Alive. But with everything she'd thought she'd known shattered.
Date December 7, 2008

Siann Hall: Gabriel and Gillian's Apartment

"Down on the ground, down on the ground now!"

The voice had been loud enough— the thwips that shot down the two men didn't gather her eyes, but that does. Gillian's had been in the alley, too far away to do anything. All she could do is turn around and look on. A pool of blood form around one of the men, the man she'd chosen to save— the one who'd saved her life. The other half wasn't left standing, either. Not really. Her choice, one that she'd made, shattered, broken. Also gone was that choice they'd made to unite rather than destroy each other.

The former librarian couldn't do anything. She'd long left the range at which she could assist— and she dared not move closer, not with any hope of keeping her own freedom. She turned around and ran home, as fast as her legs could carry her.


It took her quite some time to make her way home. She'd not been damaged near as badly. The door closes behind her and she peels off her coat. There's small cuts across her body, one of the deepest into her shoulder. Most of the damage comes from sheer exhaustion, both from her powers, and from the emotional shattering that occurred.

The cat, Chandra, unaware of what's happened, weaves at her feet. She steps over him. Avoiding him, nudging him aside with her ankle. Everything is just how they'd left it. He's not here. She makes her way to find one specific thing. The painting that started it all.

Removing the watch he repaired with one hand, Gillian looks at the painting, the one that she saw come to life. When she'd seen the destruction in the painting the first time, it'd motivated her to stop the Peters. The same day, she saw them both, watched one of them get born. And today she'd seen the other die.

The apartment is empty, so quiet in comparison to normal. It could be the remnant howling in her ears, but it's the lack of a presence that does it. So rare would he even be home. Gabriel Gray. Sylar.

They had been planning to leave together, if they both survived. To hop onto her bike, now broken, crumpled, torn.

He killed my sister.

And she can't even ask him. She can't confirm. She can't confront. There's so many abilities he could have, no way he'd shown all of them.

I hate him.

She wants to hate him. It would be so easy to hate him. The bullet that she shot into his shoulder might have destroyed any hope that she could have talked to him again, if the sudden trip to Antarctica hadn't done it for her.

But he didn't kill her. The water, something emotionally driven from the way her sister always described it, had stopped the attack on her.

She had shot him, but she would have jumped in front of him, tried to protect him.

Because she'd fallen in love with him.

In a sudden roar of frustration and anger, the watch flies out of her hands, sailing across the room with more strength than anyone would expect of her. More than she'd expect of herself. It impacts the wall, feet away from the painting, landing on the floor. The cat runs away, leaving the room, startled by the sound, the outburst.

The watch sits on the floor. The hands are frozen. At thirty-three after three. Broken.

Just like the world she'd come to know.

December 7th: Responsibility
December 7th: 2.5 Inches of Steel
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