O8 👶 you don't seek murder like this often

[pillz]

WHO: Gabriel "Sylar" Gray, Elliot Alderson, Jesse Pinkman & Joseph Kavinsky
WHERE: Maurtia Falls & surrounding areas
WHEN: February 2017
WHAT: revenge screaming
WARNINGS: Up to NC-17 for prose-written violence I guess? Substances/poisoning, torture, etc.



closed to elliot alderson;

[it's two in the morning and kavinsky is at home. one of. his apartment. 'home.' close enough.

as homes go, kavinsky's is a boyish monstrosity. a man cave stretched out into a full three rooms, and on a spectacularly ridiculous budget. his flatscreen tv takes up most of one wall. the wireless subwoofer speakers look like cell towers stationed throughout the lacquered floor, if people tended to balance tumblers of half-finished liquor and Cokes and spent ashtrays on top of cell towers. the pool table folds out of the fucking wall, and it's only half out this evening, a stolen stop sign jammed into the nook. the tv is blaring some stupid show about guns. there is an inexplicable knife sticking out of the black leather sofa.

he's staring at his cellphone, but in reality, he's listening for the door. despite appearances, the first activity is actually closely tied to the other. also related: he has a handgun shoved down the back of his pants and a grenade in his pocket.

just in case.]

closed to gabriel "sylar" gray & eventual jesse pinkman;

[the bake shack is not maurtia falls' finest, but its a cut above the neighboring options. the diner has a fairly standard menu. tuna, blt, blt with avocado, buffalo chicken, chicken fingers, grilled chicken, parmesan chicken, chicken, cheddar and broccoli, that kind of thing. the food tends to be a little fresher than most of its counterparts, thanks to some shady dealings, and they occasionally take inspired liberties with such additions as cilantro and white pepper on the daily specials. the service is above average. slightly higher, if you happen to have television experience and handsome eyebrows.

the waitress has been crushing on him awhile. she probably isn't the one who put the blood in his coffee.

either way, she's already sashayed away by the time the effects start to kick in. an instant's fatigue. and then the room starts to spin in sylar's vision. the waitress' ass swerves into a sickening perpendicular, the second before she disappears around the corner of the counter. in the kitchen, there will be someone there to grab her, cover her mouth, shove some money in the pocket of her short-shorts. they'd paid the cook twice as much.

the sunshine coming through the window feels overbright. gabriel still has strength in his hands, a shade of lucidity to his thoughts, but it's fading on him fast even as neon spots start to crawl into his vision.]

Comments

[pillz]

[after all this time, it hadn't even once occurred to kavinsky, not once, that gabriel had truly cared for sarissa in any way. it'd obviously been part of the long con, his final objective to obtain her powers. precise. calculated. the same methodical approach with which he'd broken into each of kavinsky's homes, and brought a nullifier device in the end.

for some reason, it makes kavinsky angrier. the moisture thickening sylar's eyelashes.]

Help? [his fingers dig deeper. yank the collar back and to the right, skewing sylar's head off-axis. in the same motion, kavinsky scoots off the edge of his own chair, pops neatly onto sylar's lap. thighs crosswise thighs. he's whole inches taller than sarissa, but nearly as light. not that it would matter. sarissa looks angry all of a sudden; in that warm, sanguine lovely way that sarissa does everything that a sarissa will do.

her eyes flash fire. her teeth grit. her cute little incisors are showing.]

No part of you really thought that cutting open somebody's brain is attention-seeking. Why are you crying? What makes you think you've got anything to cry about?

[bosewicht]

[ His world seems to constrict, diminishing from the vague shadows thrown from the lightbulb, the boundaries of the room, reducing now into some weird little thimble reality that takes up only the space of the chair he is secured to and the too-warm presence of a person sitting in his lap.

The leather at his throat constricts like a hand when its pulled taut. ]

I thought it might be different, [ he gravels out. ] Here. With you. It wasn't. I wasn't.

[ As far as crying goes, this seems more like he's allergic to feelings in place of having them, with tears producing themselves and forming skinny, glistening tracks out from the corners, streaking ear-wards.

Incidentally, he is deeply aware of unglamourous penis pain and associated pressure, just as much as the cut of leather around his throat, and the lovely brown of Sarissa's eyes, the soft shapes of her mouth -- even when she's mad. ]

You're hurting me.

a little more impressionistic, lmk if not ok!

[pillz]

Sorry, mate. Can't make vegemite without wringing the tears out of a fucking onion.

[but that isn't something sarissa would actually say. not under these circumstances. and nor is it something that kavinsky says, more of the banal eggs and cake type, out loud, but it gets lost in the translation of static in the canals of his ears, of particle light moving like a wave hitting the rods and cones in sylar's eyes at the wrong angles and spinning off into the polluted, fractured mess of his brain.]

Hey, Sylar. Hey.

[it's a fragmented echo. minutes have passed. more than that? time is an unevenly burning candle, melting lumpy and malformed over the unwitting fingers of the dizzy young man struggling to read by its light. no more pressure dragging the collar at gabriel's throat; less dark, curly hair netting the slender shoulders hunkered down under gabriel's nose. and the familiar sweetness of sarissa's deodorant replaced by the acrid undertone of axe body spray.

the fragrance favored by all true villains.

one-note and tinny, a shrill whine fills the concrete room. he's heard it before: a small blade rotating at high velocity. when kavinsky looks up, he's kavinsky again. neon green, but kavinsky nonetheless.

but it's sarissa's voice who says,] Maybe you need to try harder.

[bosewicht]

[ The fantasy feels like it has his brain on a torsion spring, pulling it back in every time he begins to spin away. Joseph Kavinsky is remembered only as his face presses out from the haze like he's surfacing.

God, what has he even been saying? Doing?

He gives a full-bodied twitch of revulsion when Sarissa's voice slithers out from between Kavinsky's less cute teeth. The bony weight on his thighs feels like a paralytic, and metal whines and clinks as fisted hands make a valiant attempting at wrenching fastenings from fixtures.

It takes him a second, then, to realise that that dull buzz-whine is coming from somewhere external, not just his own brain. ]

[pillz]

[kavinsky laughs. the sound seems slightly dislocated, but this time, it's his laugh, snaky and low in the air. boy register. kind of hard to hear, though, under the shrill pitch of the saw.] Cooperate, shithead, [he says.] I just want one.

[his pupils are blown out huge. as big as sylar's. you could excise their eyeballs and switch them and they'd look the same. a tiny, millimeter-thin brown ring hugged tight around black, light-eating pits of myopic darkness. kavinsky had thought about doing it sober, in order to remember. in order to know what he was doing, maybe. but all of the motivating factors, seriously considered, merely made him want to do cocaine more.

and well. when a cokehead wants to do cocaine, a cokehead will do cocaine.

the blade bites into sylar's finger. and it's anticlimactic, really. the shouting and terror and accidental tears, which only then register the reality— that none of the ones that sylar had shed earlier had been false. the rattle of wood and metal. kavinsky watches the finger-bone splinter and then pop with a strange detachment, and then finds himself watching himself with an even stranger detachment. like he's standing out to the side of them. regarding the spectacle in third person. a cameraman.

it's some stupid movie shit. not quite the music videos that kavinsky used to stylize his life after. a different genre. the creepy clinch of male bodies in the chair, fluids and bolted steel and bald concrete everywhere. jesse off in the back. screams that aren't. pleasure.

distantly, he thinks that he looks kinda hot. good job, he tells himself. you'll always have that going for you.]

[bosewicht]

[ Sylar howls.

It's not dignified. He is rarely dignified, actually, so maybe it means something that what was happening prior to this moment and prior to the injection of psychoactive drugs was not about stoicism and more about not giving a fuck what ultimately becomes of him. The howl, though, is animal and raw, and kind of delayed. It's when bone splinters that no amount of disassociation can smother out pain, even little bones like this.

He stops screaming when he passes out, neck loose in collar and sprawls like only the bits that are strapped in are keeping him from slithering out into a pile on the floor.

By the time the last of skin and tendon is snapping loose, his expression is almost at peace. ]