Participants:
| Scene Title | He's A Liar |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | But who's the monster? |
| Date | November 21, 2008 |
It's dark in Midtown, and quiet. There's very little going on. Pigeons scared off of the rooftop still linger around, as Gillian walks down the street, unloading the sidearm she'd been given as a present. A bullet is dropped to the street below every couple of steps. She's limping. Bleeding in a few places where the impact laserated her skin, or the glass from the car cut rivets into her. The bleeding would be much worse if not for the chill. Her hair is a mess, and her neck and shoulders and arms are a mess of bruises, mostly caused by impacts and invisible hands. As the last bullet is dropped to the ground, she drops her gun back into the back.
Her phone is gone— her make up is gone— she didn't drop her wallet, though, with either of her ids, and her cash, or the keys to her motorcyle or the apartment.
She did lose a boot, though. One sock covered foot steps lightly on the ground, as she moves away from the crater, and hoping to get close to civilization soon.
Gillian will find herself walking for a while, but not quite alone. Though Sylar had warned her against birds, a few fly overhead, even at this time of night, though one, a raven, is invisible against the sky and quiet as a shadow. It wheels above for a little while, before turning, heading away again.
More time stretches on. It's a big city, and the rubble and destruction goes for a long time, and not everyone can fly.
Then rather suddenly, a flock of pigeons seems to descend out of the sky from just behind Gillian, the flapping of their wings beating against air surprisingly loud as they rush past her, through the ruined street to walks on, the closest of them merely inches way, only to disappear again into shadow and sky. Then, a voice. Not an audible one, but one in her head.
Gillian. Not Peter's, but Sylar's, in a tone meant to soothe. Behind you. And she should turn, Sylar is moving at a fast pace through the destroyed street, not full tilt running but not dawdling either.
There's a lot less fear of him now that she knows a way to stop him. Gillian notices the birds, but those— she can't do much about. Moving is important right now. Her sock-covered foot bleeds by the time the pigeons decend behind her, from the broken rocks on the sidewalk, from pieces of broken glass. A long walk— The voice in her head makes her stop more than the pigeons did. She turns around, looking back, relief flooding her features. Relief— doubt all at once. Relief wins out in the end. While he may not be full tilt running, as soon as she sees him, she is. Her ability bleeds out of her, much like her wounds, but she wants to get to him.
"Gabriel," she says as soon as she thinks she's close enough she won't have to yell. And unless he stops her with words or actions, she's actually going to run right up to him, and grab onto his coat.
The fact that she's not a corpse is, frankly, astounding. The disbelief written on Sylar's face is plain as she comes running at him, and he allows her to grip onto him, his own arms wrapping somewhat protectively around her as he scans the area. Is she bait? Did Peter turn her loose just to entice him? No heart beats, no foot steps, and though his hearing isn't infallible, it's enough to indicate that they're quite alone, at least for now - especially as his hearing amps up in her direct presence.
Clasping her shoulders, Sylar eases her back, studying her. "Where are you hurt?" She has to be hurt. The man had threatened to crack her head open, and Sylar had believed him. Perhaps this Peter has no spine either, or some other variable. "What happened?"
"Feels like… everywhere," Gillian answers softly, still holding onto him, eyes closing as she leans into him for warmth and some kind of protection. He would never hurt her, no matter what some man with a scar said. When it's coming from a man who hurt her far more than anyone else had in a long time— why would she believe him? "He— I made him overload. Pushed all my power into him. If he ever does anything to me again I'll do it again." As the relief settles down into something else, there's an anger in her voice, in her heartbeat. She doesn't want to be a victim again.
"I'm okay," she assures. The fact that she's talking, her skull isn't cracked open— Despite the pain still present in her cold and numbed body, she's not crying at all.
If she were hysterical, he might have numbed what pain he could detect. As it stands, her voice isn't trembling, and her eyes are dry. Sylar, instead, keeps an arm around her shoulders, to offer support and warmth, and urges them both to continue north. It's a long walk home. "He would have killed you," he says, as they begin. "That's what he wanted to do. You exploited his weaknesses with your own strength." It sounds as though he's impressed - commending her.
The first time she'd been attacked, Gillian was hysterical. The second time, she was scared, but determined. This time, she's angry more than anything else. The arm around her seems to be enough for her. She follows his urgings, and doesn't move away, keeping a pace so that she's actually leaning back against his arm a little more than necessary. "He's a liar and an asshole," she says in whispered tones, that anger still there in her voice. It's not anywhere near as shaky as after the first few scares. She's toughening up. "He wanted to know where to find you. I didn't give him anything." Except a surge of power that nearly blew up the city.
"Thank you," Sylar says, and though he keeps his hearing wide and searching, keeps a few birds in the sky, both he and Gillian become camouflage shadows in the broken city as they walk. Only after a stretch of silence does Sylar relax, a little - it's a shame, it'd be nice if Peter did fall from the sky and they could finally finish this, but then again, he does want Peter to get his message.
And so they walk.
After a time, Sylar has to ask - knowing what Peter knows, what he had to have said. "What did he lie about?"
They walk. For a while, Gillian's more than willing to just walk, her heart settling down to a more normal beat, with some stress here and there. Every noise that doesn't quite fit makes her glance warily, and the further along they go, the more she keeps her power-bleeding reigned in. Not so shut off that he can't still get a boost, but less of one, more controlled. She's getting stronger, by the looks of things, more confident in her ability.
"He lied about you. Said you would kill me. Pretty fucked up coming from someone who'd just tried to strangle you from afar, you know?" She shakes her head. "You've never hurt me. You've only ever helped me."
The arm around Gillian's shoulders tightens a fraction, and it could be interpreted as a reply to her last statement, congenial, grateful. Luckily, the camouflage prevents Gillian from seeing the small sneer on Sylar's face at this report. She might be able to detect its presence in his tone of voice, however. "He thinks he has me all figured out," he murmurs. "He thinks that what our fight did to him makes me the villain. He's only angry that because of me, he can't be the big damn hero because of what he did." Damning words, gently spoken.
"He said he needed revenge," Gillian admits, glancing in his direction, but seeing nothing but the building. Instead, she raises her hand and touches his on her shoulder, to return some of the gesture. Despite tactile contact, there's no surge of energy— just the marginal flow, controllable, boosting. "Asshole's not caring what his quest for payback will do to the world, or even if his payback is legitimate. You're the one they blamed this whole thing on— you spent over a year locked up by that Company. Whatever part you played in what happened to him— he's an idiot for making things worse when he claims to be trying to help."
The rest of what Gillian has to say trails off, going through one ear and out the other and Sylar walking strictly on automatic when she announces what Peter had confirmed to her - maybe even his name. A more dramatic reaction might be for the blood to run out of his face, but who could tell paleness when his body, his clothing, is painted murky grey? But no, instead, he just feels a twist of anxiety, the kind one gets when one discovers they may have lost their wallet or keys - please don't let me have lost it, it's so important, it has to still be here… "He told you that," Sylar confirms, stiffly.
The hand that raised up to touch his around her shoulder squeezes. Gillian may not be able to see any reaction, but she can hear the stiffness in his voice— hear the limited commentary he tosses out to add in. "He's a liar. And anyone who looks around and sees what he did would agree that he's got no right to point fingers at anyone." Her words sound firm, angry at him, but the anger is starting to die down, and it might end up sounding like she's trying very hard to convince herself of what she wants to believe is true. "You're not a monster. You're a man."
Meanwhile, in a little apartment in Brooklyn, a chair creaks with gravitational uncertainty, awkwardly stapled into the wall with a dripping corpse trapped amongst its legs. Dripping from blood, from vomit, from water, staining carpet, staining wallpaper, not just the colours, but the clear fluid he'd choked on, making him as sodden as a body pulled out of the Hudson, making his insides bulge, stretch, heave—
He'd killed her sister to make that happen.
It's abrupt, the colours pooling back over them as Sylar's concentration breaks, pushing away from her at a stagger. It's an alien nausea, and yet intensely familiar too, the same he'd coped with when cleaning up the remains of Brian Davis, a bedsheet stained with blood and later, paper towels bunched together and smelling of salt and iron— Sylar rests his palms against his knees and fights it, the very human need to purge up and out. After such a long few years of this, what was wrong with him now.
The pushing away takes her by surprise far more than anything else did. The flood of color filling in their forms draws her eyes down, first to herself, then to him. Bent over as he is, she approaches— limping due to the tears in her feet, the pains in her legs. Worry present in her motions, in every sound of her. Worry for him. "Gabriel…" her voice is soft, the concern thick in her voice as she sticks to his name. His real name, no matter what else. She'd never cared much for Wilkens anyway— it'd been the first place she'd been attacked. "It's okay."
For her. Not for many others, though. How many has he killed since they met?
She's only seen him this vulnerable looking once. A hand goes up to touch his upper arm, wincing a little as th in her arm finally starts to get the better of her. The cool air has numbed a lot of it, but now that they've stopped moving… "Let's go home." Home is still safe.
Time hurtles them forward, unstoppably, inevitably. He's not going to be able to keep pretending for long. The walls close in. How long until he won't be able to respond to the name 'Gabriel' anymore? How long until he has to kill her whether out of necessity or because he wants to?
How long until she finds out just what kind of monster he is?
Sylar grits his back teeth together in an effort to fight back the compulsive sickness, the purposeless weakness. He's rather certain that this is what it's like to be Peter Petrelli. To feel guilt like a victim. Like he has a right to feel this way - like either of them do. A bitter chuckle finally emerges between wispy breaths, and he latches on to this. He's Sylar. Monster with a mask. He has every right to kill and no right to feel bad about it. With a deeper breath, determined not to slide into something even weaker, he straightens up again, and reaches out to take her hand. The little aches and pains in her body variously ebb away, cuts and bruises numbed. "Home," he agrees, shortly. And resumes the walk, one step at a time to an inevitable destination.
The hand that takes hers removes the pain. The pain caused by Peter Petrelli. Who she couldn't kill anymore than he seemed willing to kill her. Gillian squeezes his hand, trying to offer him as comforting a look as she can. She's no idea where this came from with him, why he's vulnerable— It's the man who kidnapped her and flew her to the ruins of Midtown's fault. Somehow. "I won't let him hurt you. Now I know for sure that I can help you." She has confidence now— which might have more to do with her not being hysterical. She'd been less of a victim this time. She fought back in an effective way. "You won't be fighting him— either of him— alone."
Oh if only she knew. Sylar manages to contain a bristling reaction to the idea that he was afraid of Peter, of either of them, because it's worth taking the implication in favour of her affirmation that she would help him. He links their fingers together, and lets the camouflage wash back over them. "I know," he says, in what he hopes is an assuring tone of voice. 'I'm fine', it says, and even adds the saccharine sentiment of, "I'm just glad you're okay."
"I've been better— but I'll be fine after a few days," Gillian says, looking down at her wounds and quietly wishing she'd decided to stay in tonight— True enough. The pain might be gone for the moment, but she's aware that's a temporary fix, something that won't last when she goes to shower the blood and dirt off— or when he goes to sleep. Pain she can handle— helplessness was far more devestating.
 November 21st: To Peter, From Sylar, With Love |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 November 21st: Cheap Shot |