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Series: Zeitgeist
Follows: One Giant Leap
Wordcount: 5,165
Summary: Two weeks after Claire Bennet's televised leap from the Ferris wheel, the 12th handles it's first case delving into the strange world of specials. Evidence points the investigation toward a former Company Agent, a man Noah Bennet would swear up and down doesn't exist.
Details: Minimal details due to inflation. Full warnings and details in main post.
Author's Note: Long chapter is long... Apologies, since it's kind of Heroes heavy, and I know most of the people reading this are Castle fans. Still, I sorely missed writing from a certain character's POV, and I just couldn't pass up the opportunity. So, um, for most of you... Outsider POV! Yay?
PREV: Interlude Five // MAIN // NEXT: Interlude Six
Chapter Ten: To Walk A Mile
He dreamed he was a wolf who dreamed he was a man who dreamed he was a wolf who dreamed. And in that maze of dreams there had been bits and pieces of memory, flying like the fragments of an exploded jigsaw puzzle...
— Robert McCammon, The Wolf's Hour
Sylar remembered quite vividly the first time he saw Hiro Nakamura's ability in use, years ago during their bizarre duel that had ended with a grim bargain struck for the life of a waitress in Texas.
No doubt most people found the notion of that much power uncomfortable, the display of its vast potential jarring when contrasted with the childlike nature of the man that wielded it. Still, Sylar doubted anyone could possibly find the experience quite as disorienting as he did. Whenever he witnessed that power in action, Sylar's own ability lent its voice, whispering a half-formed understanding of the processes involved. That incomplete knowledge was like an itch beneath his neopallium that he couldn't quite scratch, and every time Hiro bent time, Sylar understood just enough of what was happening that he could almost hear the universe groaning in protest.
Of course, having that swirling maelstrom of screaming physics appear in the middle of Peter's apartment just after they had finished dinner had been intrusive and unsettling on an entirely different level.
And, as they materialized in an empty interrogation room apparently designated for that purpose, the evening only promised to grow less pleasant. Certainly not for the first time, Sylar cursed Peter's foolishness and his sense of duty—and he cursed his own foolishness even more. For while Peter should honestly know better by now than to trust Noah Bennet, here he was answering the man's call. And if Peter was a fool, then Sylar was worse. He couldn't leave Peter to deal with Bennet on his own and trust him not to fall prey to the Company man's manipulations, of that much he was firmly certain...
But, motives notwithstanding, what else could you call a wanted serial killer who willingly entered a police station if not a fool?
Not that he was concerned about capture. If the situation had warranted, he could have worn a different face entirely—a measure he had considered and quickly deemed unnecessary. Gabriel Gray was still a suspect in his mother's death, but he barely resembled that man any more. During his brief tenure at Building 26, Sylar had been pleased to learn that neither the FBI nor the NYPD had ever connected his legal identity to the specials he'd murdered as Sylar. And, as far as he could tell, the President still slept soundly at night believing his attempted assassin had been caught and executed successfully.
And while Bennet was intimately aware of the truth behind each of those crimes, Sylar knew he had the man's sufferance—if only for a time.
Sylar had been fairly amused to see Bennet the victim of his own manipulations there, aware of how the former agent's politicking had essentially tied his hands. It was just too soon after Samuel Sullivan's attempt at genocide in Central Park and the revelation that followed for Bennet to risk Sylar's deeds coming to light. Throwing tales of another super-powered killer—particularly one whose powers made Sullivan's look paltry by comparison—onto the already volatile bonfire of public reaction would do nothing good to the delicate situation surrounding specials as a whole.
By extension, that would put Noah's poor little Claire-bear at risk. God forbid.
No, Sylar was content with the stalemate as it stood. He couldn't honestly bring himself to care that Bennet doubted his attempts at reform, but for now, as long as he stayed where the man thought he could watch him, Sylar knew that Bennet would bide his time until he could pursue his revenge safely.
Of course, any interaction between them held the potential to throw that balance all to hell, but Sylar was determined to be on his best behavior. For Peter's sake, but also because—as he fondly remembered from his short stint at the Company—needling Bennet from behind a curtain of civility was impossibly entertaining.
"What is he doing here?" Bennet asked Peter flatly as soon as he registered their appearance.
Bennet's tone and gaze were both sharp, eyes filled with more suspicion than was normal even for him. And more suspicion than anger, Sylar realized, which in itself was unusual. Weighing his initial reaction, Sylar didn't think the former agent was at all surprised to see him. That was interesting.
"I'm hurt Noah," Sylar said quickly, with a sarcastic note of affront. He filed the faintly discordant details away for later examination. "Are you not happy to see me?"
From the corner of his eye, he saw Peter wince.
"Sorry, Noah," Peter offered apologetically, "He wanted to come along on this, and he...had some good arguments."
"He means my argument that only an idiot would trust you as far as they could throw you," Sylar clarified, bluntly.
Sylar tried not to smirk at the memory of the times—and distances—he had thrown the man in the past. Behind him he heard Hiro shift his weight uncomfortably, trying to avoid notice as he ducked out the door.
"Trust." Bennet almost spat the word. "That's a rich sentiment coming from a murdering shapeshifter who tried to replace the President."
Sylar grimaced distastefully. Though he would never admit it, even Sylar considered his attempt to usurp the presidency a little crass, in hindsight.
"Not that I'm keeping score, Noah," Sylar rebutted, keeping his voice low and carefully even, "but just which one of us has spent the most time deceiving the other? You sent Elle to manipulate me into killing so that you could see how my ability worked. You tried to blackmail Canfield into using his ability to kill me. And you were party to Angela's attempt to record her dead son's memories over mine like an old video tape. I'll acknowledge the blood on my hands, but don't you dare pretend that I don't know what I'm talking about."
Sylar felt Peter flinch beside him at the mention of his brother. He regretted the words, but he tried not to let it show. He could see Bennet's arguments brewing behind his eyes, but before the man could let loose the door to the interrogation room opened. The woman who entered was tall and very attractive, with dark hair and eyes that regarded them both with a guarded appraisal that screamed "cop". The man who followed behind her screamed nothing of the kind, though Sylar thought he seemed oddly familiar.
"So, uh," the man said uncertainly, looking them both over with faint, nervous curiosity, "which one of you is the telepath?"
"Neither of them, actually," Bennet said after a pause—regaining his composure, if one could say so of a man who betrayed so little to begin with. "Detective Beckett, Mr. Castle, this is Peter Petrelli, Angela's son. And..."
Bennet's eyes took in Sylar indecisively, obviously at a loss to explain him to the detective. He decided to take pity just this once. Well... Pity of a sort. Affecting an amiable smile, he offered Mr. Castle his hand.
"Gabriel. Gabriel Butler," Sylar introduced himself, relishing the faint spark of irritation in Bennet's eyes as he appropriated the man's old alias. "I was Noah's partner in the Company."
That last wasn't an outright lie, though the period Angela's manipulations had forced them to work together had been blessedly brief. Sylar saw hot discomfort in Bennet's gaze at the familiarity he was claiming. Nonetheless, either he decided the ruse was simple enough for his purposes, or he felt disputing it was more trouble than he could afford.
"Mister...Castle?" Sylar then asked, with far more interest than he actually felt. "Not Richard Castle? The writer?"
For, coupled with the name, Sylar quickly identified where he had seen the man before. Before the manifestation of his ability, his life as Gabriel Gray had more or less consisted entirely of interchangeable periods of work and reading. Though his tastes normally fell more toward the the informative, on rare occasions he had indulged in mysteries as well, and he was sure he recalled reading one or two of the man's novels in the past.
"Uh, yeah," Castle confirmed with slack surprise as he shook the hand in front of him.
Through the contact, Sylar's touch-empathy gleaned the man's faint pleasure at the recognition that lay close to the surface. Delving a little deeper, he could feel a storm of conflicted emotions—curiosity and confusion, horror, concern, excitement, guilt and dread—all tangled up in the back of the writer's mind. Intrigued, he was tempted to extend the handshake, exercise another ability to learn more through a retrieval of the man's recent history. Unfortunately, the greeting was summarily interrupted by a disapproving look from Detective Beckett, which had the writer retracting his hand with chagrin.
"To anticipate your next question," Bennet told the detective, directing disapproval of his own toward Sylar as though aware of what he had been doing, "Peter is a mimic. Like Reichardt, he can copy the abilities of other specials, though in his case he can only copy a single ability at a time. I was hoping he might agree to aid us by acquiring telepathy for a short while."
He turned his attention to Peter during that last, making it a question.
"Uh, yeah, about that..." Peter said, confusion plain on his face, "Hiro tried to tell me what was going on, but I didn't really understand what he was talking about. Something about his uncle, secret Nazis and murder?"
Though his face remained impassive, Sylar could practically hear Bennet debating with himself whether to share the information in Sylar's presence. He must have been unable to think of an adequate argument to do otherwise, however, as he reluctantly began to outline the situation. As Bennet spoke, Sylar found himself caught between intense fascination and a very personal sense of horror. The story of the policeman who was his own suspect was impressive in the uniqueness of its intrigue, but at the same time Detective Ryan's precarious and alarming circumstances hit him painfully close to home.
"Hmm, yes," Sylar said, affecting a sympathetic tone to cover his unease. "I can see why Parkman might be reluctant to cooperate with you in something like that."
The glance he shot Bennet silently punctuated the sentence with an unvoiced implication. Again.
"Uh, just what is it you're going to...do, exactly?" Castle asked hesitantly.
Dissecting what he'd learned from the brief reading and matching it to what he now knew of the case, Sylar felt the writer was at war within himself against a natural curiosity as he tried to do his friend's predicament justice.
"We need to know the nature of the divide between Ryan and Reichardt," Bennet clarified carefully, "whether Reichardt poses an active threat. Peter may be able to decipher that with just a glance, or it may require something more...thorough."
Invasive, Sylar translated to himself.
"Once we understand that," Bennet continued carefully, "we'll need to know whether Reichardt was somehow involved in the murder."
Detective Beckett seemed about to protest, but Bennet held up a hand before she managed to speak.
"Hopefully, Detective, we'll be able to rule him out as a suspect," Bennet said, firmly, though not without what Sylar grudgingly acknowledged was a note of sympathy. "But I know you're aware it's a possibility we have to consider. And, regardless of whether Reichardt has any knowledge of the murder itself, he may still be our best source of information regarding Zimmerman's time at the Company."
Sylar caught the course of action suggested in Bennet's words long before anyone else did, and was proud of his control when he managed not to react outwardly—that reaction could so easily have turned violent. Judging from the concerned glance that was soon sent his way, Peter was next.
"Wait." Peter said, forehead creasing as he worked it out, "you're not saying you want me to...make him Reichardt again?"
Sylar watched as the idea hit the detective and her companion, leaving them both startled and understandably ill at ease. This time, Beckett made herself heard.
"Are we certain this is even necessary?" she argued. "We don't even know for sure that Reichardt is involved. Until we have stronger evidence suggesting otherwise, we don't need him to continue working the case. Especially when the only way to accomplish it would require..."
She trailed off, clearly at a loss for how to articulate the idea. Castle picked up the thread of her argument
"Wouldn't that mean effectively...un-writing Kevin Ryan?"
Earnest eyes clearly displayed his sick horror at the thought, and Sylar could guess from his hesitation and the uneven tone of his voice that he'd almost used another word entirely.
"Not un-writing," Bennet argued, pausing as he considered his words carefully. "Just...isolating. Temporarily. Partitioning off."
None of Bennet's words had been an outright lie, Sylar's abilities told him that to a concrete certainty, but there were still plenty of other ways for the man to deceive. And if no one else had noticed that Bennet had avoided directly addressing Detective Beckett's questions of necessity, Sylar most certainly had. He wasn't able to address it, however, before Peter spoke up.
"It can be done," Peter admitted reluctantly, and Sylar supposed it was possibly meant to be reassurance. "Probably. I'd need to know first how separate the two personalities are, and what keeps them that way, but... It can be done."
Peter's eyes were shadowed as he spoke, and Sylar knew he was thinking of the last time he'd seen his brother's face—a face that had, by rights, belonged to Sylar. Recollection of that night always made Sylar's skin crawl faintly. He had no memory of the deed when it was first done to him—the sick miracle Parkman had performed to keep Angela's oldest son alive in memory—but he remembered that night. He remembered the distressing fight with his own body, shifting against his control to take the form of another. He remembered the paralyzing terror as Peter uprooted his memories and identity piece by piece...
The horror of the experience had dulled over the years of compressed time he'd later spent locked within his own mind, but it had never really left him. And Peter's efforts had still proven futile, in the end...
All he had accomplished that night was the chance to say goodbye.
"Peter," Sylar warned softly, his voice blank of emotion even to his own ears, "if you open that box you can't know that you'll be able to close it again."
Conflict was visible in Peter's eyes as he weighed Sylar's words. After a few moments he turned to regard Bennet and Detective Beckett.
"What are Detective Ryan's feelings on all this?" Peter asked, though Sylar felt the answer to that should have been clear.
If Beckett and the writer hadn't been made aware Bennet's plans, he doubted the object of those plans had been kept any better informed. Bennet's silence was all the confirmation either of them needed.
"I can't do that to him without his permission, Noah," Peter told the man firmly, a touch of anger slipping into his voice. "I won't."
"Fine, Peter," Bennet said, resignation audible in his acceptance of Peter's conditions, "But please tell me exactly how we're supposed to convince Detective Ryan to go through with it."
But it was Sylar who answered that question.
"I'll talk to him," he said.
Peter's eyes widened slightly in surprise at Sylar's words—and Sylar could admit to feeling a small amount of surprise that he had spoken them. Bennet eyes narrowed in wary suspicion. Detective Beckett and the writer both looked at him with vague confusion, unaware of the significance the offer held. Sylar met Bennet's gaze, expecting challenge, but was surprised to see the other man give a slight nod of approval, however reluctantly. Despite their deeply rooted dislike of each other, they both knew that Sylar was the only one who could possibly relate to Detective Ryan on the subject.
The conversation very nearly didn't happen.
From the moment they arrived outside the room where Ryan was being kept the man's partner, Detective Esposito, met them with a remarkable degree of suspicion and hostility. In fact, the way he bristled just from Bennet's presence was almost enough to make Sylar like him just a little. If his resistance hadn't stood in direct opposition to Sylar's own goals, he probably would have found it amusing.
And that was before Bennet began to explain what they were after. From the way Esposito's fingers twitched, for a moment Sylar thought the detective was going to shoot him.
"No, Bennet. No way in hell."
"I understand your objections, Detective Esposito, and I know this course of action must seem…drastic. But, apart from being the surest way to discover Reichardt's connection to the murder—if any—it may be our only means of proving your partner's innocence."
Sylar could see the possibility gave the detective pause, but after a moment Esposito shook his head.
"I don't know how your Company did things, Bennet, but if you think I'm going to let you play around inside my partner's head you must be out of your own damned mind."
"It's not your choice to make," Sylar offered mildly, interrupting their discussion.
Esposito looked at him then, as if he'd only just caught the man's attention.
"Excuse me?" He asked, curtly. "And just who the hell are you?"
Over the course of the man's conversation with Bennet, Sylar had considered several ways in which he might introduce himself. Esposito's obvious dislike of Bennet meant claiming association with the Company would only work against him. The truth was right out.
"Gabriel," he said finally, deciding to keep it simple.
The detective's reaction was interesting, to say the very least. His eyes narrowed, cutting briefly toward Bennet with a gaze that returned far too quickly. There was something in that aborted gesture, a recognition—one Sylar felt the man was trying to hide. Coupled with Bennet's lack of surprise… Sylar wondered if the two were connected in some way.
Later.
"Believe me, Detective," Sylar offered quickly, directing a glance at Bennet that was half sneer, "I wouldn't trust Bennet with my goldfish, let alone the psyche of anyone I pretended to care about. But it's not your choice. This is something only your partner can decide."
He could see Esposito's resolve weaken slightly under that approach, and struck again swiftly.
"Let me talk to him," Sylar insisted. "Five minutes. It will take at least ten for Peter to return."
Esposito considered reluctantly, turning to Bennet with a frown.
"You going to vouch for this guy?" he asked Bennet pointedly.
The question seemed oddly calculated, as though Esposito was appealing to the friction between Sylar and Bennet in an effort to shake their proposal. Sylar could almost laugh at the constipated expression that crossed Bennet's face. Moments passed before he spoke.
"Gabriel has…a unique perspective to offer regarding your partner's situation," Bennet said, hesitantly.
It was all very diplomatic.
"And he doesn't have some ability that's going to coerce my partner into doing something against his will?" Esposito asked quickly, an unusual bit of forethought that Sylar couldn't help but respect a little.
"Not to the best of my knowledge," Bennet answered firmly.
The dig passed over the detective's head. Sylar had every reason to believe that Bennet's knowledge of his existing arsenal was fairly complete. For him to have an ability Bennet was not already aware of, the implication followed naturally that Sylar was hunting again. He wasn't, and he knew that Bennet knew that. It was part of their unspoken truce, after all. Still, it was a marvelously subtle way of Bennet to say out loud what Sylar knew had been in the man's head ever since he and Peter had arrived in the station.
Calling Sylar a monster to his face clearly ran counter to his current agenda, whatever that was.
In the end, the most Esposito agreed to was staying outside the door. Sylar was aware of the detective's eyes watching the meeting intently through the window as he entered. Unintimidated, he ignored the man and carried on.
Focused on negotiation with the man's partner, Sylar hadn't yet had a chance to get a good look at Detective Ryan. The man struck him as almost preternaturally unassuming. Attractive by some standards, perhaps, and his suit and vest were as embarrassingly outmoded as anything Gabriel Gray might have worn, but not the sort of man you would give a second glance if you saw them on the street. Still, there was something oddly familiar about his face. As if he'd seen him before…possibly in a photograph. The memory was vague, however, as though it were something from long ago, and given what he knew of the man's connection to the Company and Angela Petrelli, it was possibly that the memory belonged to Nathan.
And Sylar could tell from the moment he laid eyes on him that the man was a special. He could sense it, the way he often could, though there was a peculiar discord on the edge of his awareness. It chafed subtly against his senses like sand caught in his teeth. Or like a broken watch. It was the unmistakable, aggravating feeling of a thing not working properly. More than anything, it reminded him of what he'd felt when Arthur Petrelli had stolen his son's original ability. Only, whereas Peter's crippled ability had felt like a mechanism less a crucial gear, Ryan felt as though all the parts were still in place. They simply awaited the push that would set them back in motion…
Peter's problem, Sylar decided, putting his focus toward the task at hand.
As the door fell softly closed, Detective Ryan looked up. Warily, so warily. Sylar saw his eyes move briefly to the window behind him—seeking his partner's, Sylar thought. Whatever unseen expression or reassurance he saw, Ryan seemed to calm just a little.
"Who are you?" Ryan asked—far more politely than his partner, though there was still a note of defensive challenge I his tone.
"My name is Gabriel," Sylar told him. "I'm..."
As with his partner, Sylar had considered briefly multiple approaches to their introduction. Despite the experiences they apparently held in common—or indeed, possibly because of them—Sylar found himself briefly at a loss. But, after what he felt was too long a pause, he felt he had to offer something.
"I'm…no one special."
He saw Ryan take in the words, forehead creasing gently as though trying to decode some hidden meaning in them. Sylar hadn't intended any, though it approached a painfully Freudian slip of the tongue. Sylar knew he would have to be careful. The man was practically vibrating with anxiety, as though anticipating some sort of attack. That nervous fear rang all sorts of bells, and at that moment Sylar was reminded sharply of being in this position months ago. Found wandering by police, alone, terrified, lost—a nameless nothing ignorant of his own identity, and for all his power entirely helpless against the accusation that he was a murderer...
An uncertain beat passed before Sylar decided the route he would take with the man.
"Can I show you something?" he asked carefully, approaching the table to sit only at Ryan's reluctant nod.
Reaching into his pocket, Sylar pulled out his wallet. As always, he felt a sting of unpleasant emotions as he drew the photograph out of hiding. Guilt, anger, sorrow, regret. Sylar ran fingertips lightly over the two young faces that stared back at him before he handed it over to the wary detective.
As Ryan took the photograph, their fingers touched—just briefly, but it was enough. Enough to get a sense of the man's "heart", as Lydia had once described her ability's function.
Sylar felt the man's hesitant curiosity coating the surface of his emotions like a layer of dust, barely concealing the snarl of confusion and doubt beneath—or the intense, cold, sucking panic at its core. Feeling that terror for himself—coiled tightly inward like a snake devouring itself—Sylar was abruptly forced to reevaluate his impression of the detective. For while Ryan's fear lay close enough to the surface that anyone could see, Sylar was taken aback by how well the man hid the full, gaping black depth of it.
His grasp on composure was thin, though, very thin. But that curiosity was the key, Sylar thought. If he could manage to hold Ryan's interest, the detective might just remain stable enough for him to make his point.
"Peter and I both pretend he doesn't know I have this," Sylar admitted, though he knew it probably meant nothing to the detective. "The older one is named Simon. He's twelve. His brother, Monty, just turned nine."
The introduction caught Ryan slightly off guard. Forehead creasing fretfully, the detective gave the photograph another glance before he set it back on the table, his eyes searching Sylar's uncertainly.
"Uh, your sons?" Ryan guessed cautiously, clearly trying to connect significance to the photo in this moment.
Momentarily distracted by the photograph before he returned it to its hiding place, Sylar silently shook his head.
"About a year ago, I..." Sylar began, hesitating briefly over his choice of words—how to explain himself without confessing to murder. "I was responsible for the death of Angela Petrelli's oldest son. Nathan."
The man had been such a non-topic during his time trapped in the purgatorial nightmare of his own mind with Peter that Sylar fought himself just dragging the name from his throat.
"I'm a shapeshifter," Sylar explained, which was understating things dramatically, but it gave Ryan the information he needed to understand. "And, as punishment and a way of keeping him alive, Angela had a telepath erase my identity and implant me with her dead son's memories."
And Sylar saw the detective make the connection then, sitting back with a stunned expression as he grasped the parallel which Sylar was trying to make.
"For more than six months," Sylar continued, "I lived Nathan Petrelli's life, never knowing it wasn't my own. When I discovered the truth... I was angry. I was so angry..."
His reaction, Sylar knew, was probably best left out of the equation.
"I'm not what most people consider a good person," he substituted, a simple fact that would have to suffice. "But while Nathan was far from perfect, he was important to a lot of people. He had a brother who looked up to him, two handsome sons and a teenage daughter, and an estranged wife he was considering..."
Sylar trailed off, unwilling to proceed honestly where even he wasn't entirely sure of what he felt, and which feelings were his own.
"Noah wants me to convince you to let him unbury your real past," Sylar told the man, watching Ryan's reaction carefully. "If it were me, I'd tell him to drop dead. But he thinks that Reichardt's insight can help solve this murder, whether he was responsible or not. None of your friends want to see him do that, but in the end its not their choice. It's yours. And you have to decide whether those answers are worth the risk."
Very little showed outwardly in the detective's face as Sylar's words sunk in, just the barest twitch of muscle here and there as he fought to remain calm in the face of that decision. His eyes were distant for a time before they cut abruptly to Sylar's own.
"If they bring Reichardt back..." Ryan asked slowly, a tremor in his voice that was just below hearing. "If they do that, what happens to me?"
Sylar sat back, fighting past the horrendous memory of the mental chop job that Peter had inflicted to the odd blankness that had followed. Done to him against his will, the experience had been impossibly traumatic, and the one monstrous thing he would ever say for sure could be laid at Peter's feet. But beyond the horror of the attack itself...
"As much as I hate to flatter him, Peter knows what he's doing," Sylar admitted. "He...did something similar once before, when he wanted to tell his brother 'goodbye'."
It was a stretch. Peter had been seeking revenge as much as anything else. The gory details of Sylar's crucifixion with a nail gun were better left out of the conversation entirely...
"For me, it was...kind of like going to sleep."
Ryan was quiet for another long moment before his head wobbled in a loose motion that wasn't quite a nod.
"I... I don't know," Ryan said, softly. "I'll think about it."
Sylar accepted that. He knew Bennet would have to. But Sylar thought he'd gotten enough of a sense of the detective to understand his inner workings, just a little. And he had a fairly strong intuition of what the man's answer would be...
And he had also come to understand something else.
"Autohypnosis," Sylar grudgingly shared with Bennet once he had left Ryan to think and the detective's partner had rejoined him.
Bennet raised an eyebrow inquiringly, and Sylar took it as his cue to explain.
"It was the third ability I picked up," Sylar told him, "back in the beginning. I no longer have it, but I recall the...feeling of it. The mechanism of its function."
He watched Bennet consider quietly, slow understanding punctuated by a nod.
"The ability essentially gives a person freedom to reprogram their own brain at will," Sylar continued, "to an amazing degree if they know how to use it properly. It could certainly have created a personality like Ryan, altering the interpretations of memories, or enforcing a framework to construct them as needed. It also allows for a certain amount of biofeedback: control over heart-rate, adrenal output, sensory reception. While it might not be possible to have so fine control of the ability as I was able to manage, from my experience with mimics, repressing his other acquired abilities might easily have been in his grasp at one time."
Sylar was actually rather proud of the understanding, but any joy he might have felt over it was quickly blighted by a hard turn to Bennet's already unfriendly demeanor.
"Sensory reception," Bennet gritted out lowly. "That was how you managed to kill Eden."
Remembering, whatever guilt Sylar might have felt was eaten away, a cruel smirk taking its customary place on his features.
"Was she the one with the mouth who tried to compel me to suicide?" Sylar asked coyly, though he knew well enough that it had been. "Then yes, Noah, yes it was. And for the sake of disclosure, it was also how I stopped my heart so I could kill that doctor friend of yours who was sticking needles into my brain. Any more minutia you'd like cleared up while we're both managing to talk so civilly?"
And it might well have escalated from there into something that could neither be taken back nor stopped, but the door to the side office opened. Detective Ryan stood there, weight shifting awkwardly on his feet as he stared at them silently. Esposito stood nearby at his back, his face as stony and uncommunicative as anything Bennet might ever have managed.
Expression wavering between uncertainty and resolve, Ryan spoke.
"I'll do it."
PREV: Interlude Five // MAIN // NEXT: Interlude Six
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Date: Sunday, 6 November 2011 09:59 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: Sunday, 6 November 2011 10:16 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: Sunday, 6 November 2011 10:18 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: Sunday, 6 November 2011 10:22 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: Monday, 7 November 2011 11:35 pm (UTC)From:I want to say something more coherent about this chapter but I think NaNoWriMo ran away with the part of my brain that strings words together and hid it. XD
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Date: Tuesday, 8 November 2011 01:51 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: Monday, 30 January 2012 01:14 pm (UTC)From:It's cute how protective he's being of Peter. And of Kevin's hoice.
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Date: Monday, 30 January 2012 01:27 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: Monday, 30 January 2012 02:06 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: Saturday, 14 July 2012 05:09 pm (UTC)From: