You know you're a fucking mess when the only thing you say that isn't a line is the one thing that sounds like it. [but she's not unsympathetic, taking her hand away. she seems less real for a moment, a shade too pale and a few inches taller, muddled into the uncertain space between reality and nightmare and legitimate trauma.

it's quiet awhile apart from the chatter of artificial static in sylar's ears, the wall paint dribbling like human melt once upon a time in hiroshima and lurching towards his chair, vanishing next into a burning snap of electric white. that's kavinsky putting a flashlight in his eyes. but it's sarissa's face he sees after, and her hand on the side of his neck.

(kavinsky checking the tape is sitting right. that beer made his fingers cold. he's scooted in closer than he'd dared before, leaning up between sylar's knees.)

but it's sarissa who asks:]

Did you ever try to fight it?