2007-11-25: Dreaming's End

Warning: contains Heroes Season 3 Material

Starring:

Claire_icon.gif Sylar_icon.gif

Summary: Last time on HeroesMUSH, Claire made a huge mistake. The time has come to bear the consequences of her actions.

Date It Happened: November 25th, 2007

Dreaming's End


An Abandoned Apartment Complex in the Bronx.

The door slams shut, the sound of it echoing loudly off of the walls of the apartment. "Well," Sylar begins, as he directs Claire to the wall, slamming her up against it with his hand. "I doubt that you've come over for a cup of tea," he says, head tilting to the side as he looks at Claire curiously. "Revenge? Is that what it was? Decided you couldn't take it anymore and had to come kill me?" He slides her along the wall, slamming her into the frame of a nearby window as he toys with her, much like a cat would a mouse before settling down for the kill.

A high pitched cry escapes Claire's lips as her back pounds against the wood, her head so closely behind it that it feels simultaneous. There's a disgust in the curl of her mouth — in the sneer she is fighting to pull onto her upper lip. It is about the eyes, however, wide and icy blue, that her terror is betrayed. Her bravery is nothing more than a front. "You're a murderer. A monster," she manages to push past clenched teeth, lungs still straining to pull in breath after her frantic dash earlier. Then a venomous truth: "I hate you."

The smirk on his face growing wider, Sylar lifts Claire up further into the air, so that her head is almost touching the ceiling at this point. He pauses, listening to her words, and his face slowly transforms into something akin to rage. "I.. am not a monster," he mutters, eyes narrowing as he whips his hand backwards, sending Claire flying across the room, the killer turning so he can watch for her body to bounce helplessly off of the other wall.

Claire does indeed soar through the air at Sylar's command, a mere projectile until she hits that opposite wall. The telekinesis releases its hold over her in time that she can bring her arms up over her head protectively — an act that is more instinct than anything else — before she falls helplessly to the ground in a heap with only her grunts of pain to mark the flight. In a daze, she tries to pick herself back up to her feet, a single strand of blonde hair now fallen from her ponytail and hanging in her face. When she looks at Sylar, her eyes are narrowed and poison hides behind her gaze. "No? Then what are you?"

"Your worst nightmare," Sylar responds, extending his hand out and raising the ex-cheerleader off of the floor again. He lets her hover there for the smallest amount of time, before he smirks and flings his hand upward, sending Claire smashing into the ceiling. As soon as the plaster and wood gives way, he drops her, letting her fall back down into the floor.

As Claire feels her feet lose contact with the ground, her toes stretch downward to prolong the inevitable. It seems that just when she might find the ground beneath them, her back is again pounding against drywall. This time, however, it is the ceiling, and there's only further to fall. When she lands, she feels her shoulder pop out of the socket, and there's a roar of pain that tears past her mouth, even as she awkwardly moves to pull herself into a half-sit and then to pull it back into the socket. Bits of the ceiling falls down on top of her, coating her in a layer of plaster and fine dust. She has nothing to say to him this time: he's right and she is in pain.

As soon as Claire lands, Sylar is immediately on the offensive again. His hand extended, he reaches out and grips her with his telekinesis once more, this time slamming her directly into the wall behind her. He takes three steps forward, closing the distance between the two of them, keeping her against the wall as he talks. "Is this what you had in mind when you came to hunt me down?" he asks, eyes locked on hers as he speaks, "Did you really think you could anything to me? That you could stop me?" His eyes narrow, the smirk on his face disappearing as he extends two fingers towards her forehead. It starts. Telekinesis rips into flesh and bone, sawing her skull in half as he draws his fingers along her forehead, the cut tracing after his fingers exactly as he wants it to.

As Claire is again pushed by that invisible force seemingly centered on her torso, she curls around it. Her legs and head follow behind the rest of her body as though she were little more than a mere doll. When she's against that wall, her extremities twitch with the effort to free herself. Her knees pull up, her feet planting themselves against the wall to try to push herself free, but only slipping futily. Her face is the portrait of resistance, face contorted into a veritable mountain range of deep creases and crinkling skin. "S-stop," she tries one more time, trying to assert her will over the situation.

Then the slicing begins, and the blood that pours into her eyes, blinding her. Oh, God. She really is going to die. ….Really, this time. Why isn't her life flashing before her eyes? Isn't it supposed to?

Her commanding tone probably gets lost in the screaming.


The sound of bone grinding together fills the room as Sylar finishes cutting her forehead open, the top half of her skull coming off with a sickening 'pop' noise. Hunger shines in Sylar's eyes, tearing its way through his conscious mind as it consumes him whole. The top half of her head falls to the floor in a mass of bone, blood, and blonde hair. He slowly lowers the girl to the floor, stepping forward and crouching down at her crown. His eyes have only one focus, her brain, as he speaks to her. "Why stop now?" he says, his hands moving to her head. "Not when I'm this close."

Close he is. Fingers search as he tries to understand, tries to find the right spot that will tell him everything, every second and movement bringing him that much closer to finally achieving what he's struggled to achieve for a very long time.

Her back strains to arch as every nerve feels like its on fire, screaming that this will never be alright. Fortunately, never is not likely to be that much longer. Claire doesn't even feel the traveling down the wall. By the time her feet reach a height, however, where they might be able to stretch and find floor again… Everything goes strangely dull.

Is this what it's like to die? Her voice, once she finds it, is little more than an imploring whisper whisper. "How long is it going to take?"

"It will be over soon," the killer responds, eyes falling shut as he fingers continue to search for what makes her tick. It isn't long after her question before he's suddenly at the attention, inhaling a long, deep breath through his nose as his hand finally pauses. He remains still for quite some time, eyes moving behind his eyelids until they finally snap open, a smirk growing larger and larger against Sylar's face. He looks over to his left, eyes falling on Claire's skull, which he grabs and places back into place.

Standing, the killer takes one look at Claire before moving over to the small kitchen off of the living room, grabbing a nearby towel as he begins to wipe the blood from his hands.

It should hurt. It should be agonizing. Everything in Claire should be screaming for him to put an end to it. What she experiences, however, is none of these things.

She feels nothing at all.

Claire watches with some measure of vacancy to her gaze as Sylar performs his dark task. Her whimpering has long since passed as has her fear, leaving only a profound sadness in her expression. And then the murderer puts her skull back. And her body mends the seam, as though it were never there. And she goes on. Breathing. Living.

This can't be right. Sylar goes about performing the mundane task of washing blood from his hands; Claire's expression becomes one of confusion. He's the murderer — the dark expert on death — while she merely the ingenue who survives. Her whispered query cuts into the silence, breaking the fragility of the moment like a sledgehammer under its feather lightness. "Why am I still alive?"

When Claire's whisper tears through the silence, Sylar's eyes slowly travel over to meet hers, the cold water from the tap spilling into the sink and mixing with the blood from his hands, both spiraling down into the drain. He reaches up and slowly closes the tap, taking his towel and drying off his hands. He shakes his head, something akin to almost pity in his eyes as he watches Claire.

"You poor girl," he begins, stepping out of the kitchen and into the living room, double-checking his hands to make sure they're clean of blood. "You'll always still be alive." His eyes move back to hers, and he smiles, but there is no warmth as he moves to the door, placing his hand on the doorknob. "And so will I."

No pithy remarks. No exhaustive spout of undying optimism. Seeing Sylar but not seeing him at the same time, Claire watches the dark man as he prepares to… go? He is leaving her with the same disregard as he must have left any number of corpses before her, except that she's still alive. Her face is expressionless and her limbs hang limply at her sides.

She can't even bring herself to move an inch as she simply sits on the floor. How did she get to the floor? She must have slid.

Her hair now left hanging, free of the ponytail that once bound it, it sticks about the teenager's forehead to tiny little line of blood — the only sign that anything was ever wrong.

And all Claire can do is watch him go.

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