2008-02-10: Justice and Redemption

Starring:

Angela_icon.gif Gabriel_icon.gif

Summary: Angela and Gabriel meet up in the middle of the night to discuss recent developments. Gabriel has questions. Angela has answers. Not the answers he wants to hear, and someone else takes control.

Date It Happened: February 10th, 2008

Justice and Redemption


Gray & Sons, NYC

With Elle fast asleep, Gabriel sneaks into the kitchen in the middle of the night, sliding his cell phone from his pocket as he does. Being able to walk without footsteps, plus being invisible makes it easy for him to avoid waking her. Stepping further into the kitchen, he flips open the cover on the phone, the soft glow of the display reflecting off of the cabinets. He punches in a series of numbers, and holding the ear to his phone, he speaks when he hears a click on the other end. "We need to talk."

—-

Heavy, lavish blankets cover a four poster bed. A lamp casts a warm glow in the middle of the night from a bedside table. Beside it, a pair of reading glasses, a vase in which a collection of flowers, mostly white, some creams, sits decoratively, and of course, a phone.

A hand clutches the receiver, pressed to an ear beneath dark hair belonging to the occupant of the bed, sitting up against pillows. Like the voice on the other end, there is no hello in reply, no greeting, simply an answer. "The usual place?" asks Angela Petrelli.

—-

"One hour."

Snapping the phone shut, Gabriel slips it back into his pocket, looking around. Elle is still fast asleep. No worries there. He creeps across the apartment, still invisible and lacking the sounds of footsteps, and once near the door, he slips his jacket on. This is the crucial part. The door is inevitably going to make noise when he opens it, so he has to be very careful.

Through the door and out into the hallway, he very lightly and very slowly latches it shut. So far so good. Gabriel isn't busted by Elle yet, and it doesn't look like he's going to be busted. He heads down the hallway, and to any regular person, it would look as if the elevator doors open and close all on their own. No one leaves the elevator, and no one boards… except for the invisible man.

—-

Tiny mechanical parts scatter the floor along with debris. Minuscule gears and springs, unsalvageable timepieces made skeletal. Stepping amongst them, over the water stains, are the black heels of a woman's shoes. Angela waits, calmly, in the near-dark, clad in black: slacks, fur-trimmed coat, a lighter jacket underneath buttoned high on her neck with pearl fastenings. Lights lining the Brooklyn street outside create a negative image on the floor in shadow and light in front of her: 'Gray & Sons'.

—-

"Peter is looking into Pinehearst." The voice is sudden and loud in the otherwise quiet watchshop, originating from somewhere near the bent pipe sticking out of the wall. The one still covered in blood. Gabriel suddenly appears, a soft shimmer in the darkness revealing him as he drops his invisibility, stepping forward into the light from the street outside. "He says he won't go alone, and that he'll be careful."

—-

On Gabriel's sudden entrance, Angela turns around to face him without surprise. She turns on a small lamp on the table. It looks like an old-fashioned oil lamp, but it's electric. Its spill of light is small, hard to see from the street, from this angle, but it lends warmth and the capacity to see, at least in this small circle, more than streetlights provide. "Peter getting anywhere near Arthur is the last thing anyone needs."

—-

"I tried to tell him as much. Pinehearst is a force to be reckoned with… Elle and I can both attest to that." He has no doubt Angela knows what happened at Pinehearst when they went. After all, Elle was summoned to the Company after it happened. Because she was shot, yes, but it's unlikely something as big as what happened went unnoticed by the Company. "I don't know what he's going to do. Elle told him to talk to you… you have to make him realize what he's getting himself into."

—-

"They have Claire." Angela walks around the small table she set the lamp upon, her form moving in and out of the scope of the yellowish light. "You know, by now, how he is when the people he cares about are taken away." God knows it's happened enough times, in part by her command. "But I know a way to get through to him."

—-

"Someone, somewhere, is always going to need saving. Peter is a good man, but one day he'll get in over his head. Pinehearst might be that day." The ex-killer keeps his eyes on Angela at all times, his ears open for sounds of anything suspicious happening around them. He doesn't yet fully trust Angela, and he may never fully trust her at all. He's here for his own purpose as much as he is to tell her about Peter, but he isn't about to get to that yet. "What way is that?"

—-

Both of these people are here for their own purposes; Angela is very aware of that fact, and quite suspects Gabriel is as well, given his nature. She smiles, briefly, coming to a stop opposite him across the table, leaning on all ten fingertips. "A mother has her ways. I'll handle Peter, make him realize his tactics have a crucial error." The Petrelli matriarch's dark eyes seek out the killer's — sorry, ex-killer's — gaze. " Was there something else you wanted, Gabriel?"

—-

It's a long time before Gabriel responds to Angela, his face impassive as he matches the woman's gaze. He turns away from her, causing a few pieces of the mechanical debris to float up to his hand, where he collects them in his palm. Looking down at them, he speaks to Angela without turning around, pushing the pieces around in his hand with his fingers, sorting through them. "Who are you really?" his gaze shifts up to the wall, ignoring the pieces of debris in his hand. Yet he still doesn't turn to look at her. "Watching me ever since I was a boy? My potential? Who am I? Am I really just the son of a watchmaker and an average housewife?"

—-

Angela moves slowly around the table, her precise footfalls rattling the remains of clockworks as they brush past her feet. She approaches from behind in the artificial lamplight that, coincidentally, flickers. The woman's hand flattens against Gabriel's back, sliding up to hook over his shoulder. "No, dear," she tells him, very nearly a whisper in his ear. "You've known the truth all your life, haven't you. That you're special. You're different even from all the others."

—-

"Tell me," Gabriel says, his eyes still on the wall in front of him. Even with Angela's hand on his shoulder, her near whisper in his ear, he doesn't turn to look at the woman. "Why am I so special? Why me? All I want is a normal life, but I can't have that, can I?"

—-

Gabriel may not be able to see her, but Angela is smiling. Tilting her head up to watch his loftier profile, she leans in to challenge him: "You're lying." Oh, she may not have the true ability to detect a lie when it's spoken, but she might as well. She pets his shoulder, a thumb running back and forth over the fabric in a motherly gesture. "I've seen it in your eyes. The power you feel when you call yourself Sylar." She strolls around to face him. "Even now, trying to … play house with Elle. It must have been awfully difficult for you to give up that feeling of being extraordinary. You were born to be special, Gabriel."

—-

"… but why?" There's a hint of desperation in Gabriel's voice, a desperation to understand who he is and why he's so special. He may have asked to be different, to be special… but not like this. Not a monster. Not a killer. Is that who he really is? "That can't be who I am.. there has to be something in the world, something good for me." He watches her when Angela strolls around to face him, his gaze boring into hers. Whether it's staying with Elle or just.. trying to lead a normal life.." Frustration is beginning to mount in Gabriel, his eyes closing as he shakes his head, his jaw setting with tension. Eyes snap open. The man whose gaze settles on Angela is not the same man it was a handful of seconds ago. "Tell me the truth."

—-

"I am," Angela confirms, calm in the face of Gabriel's forceful words. In fact, she smiles as her eyes stare, dark and hard and yet somehow … they hold consolation. Acceptance. "Good is relative. Your strength lies in your ability, Gabriel, it's who you are— " She nods her head slowly. Up, down, up, down, eyes locked on his — a hypnotist's trick. Agree, agree, nod your head too. "But it's how you choose to use it that shapes who you'll become." Angela lays a hand along the side of the man's face. Her voice lowers again, becoming a serious whisper. "The truth is … I created you."

—-

"I don't want that to be who I am— can't you understand that?" For the first time since she moved to face him, the man looks away from Angela, his eyes focusing on a random spot in the wall. "I don't even want to…" Whatever he was going to say, however, is completely derailed by Angela's next words. His eyes snap back to hers, his head tilting ever so slightly to the right. "… created me?"

What happens next happens in an instant. In a flash, Sylar's arm snaps out to his side, as if he were about to strike Angela, but the effect is much different: the woman will find herself lifted off of her feet and traveling through the air with a good amount of velocity, only to slam into the wall to Sylar's right. She comes dangerously close to the very same pipe he once died on, but the man makes sure she doesn't slam into it and die. Then this would all be for nothing, wouldn't it?

"Is this what you wanted?" he says, head slowly turning so he can look at Angela. Hand held out in front of him, he keeps Angela lifted off of the floor by the throat. "Your… 'creation', you called me?" He begins to move towards her slowly, still speaking as he walks. "Is this how I was meant to be? If my ability is who I am… then I'm a murderer. A cold hearted killer. Someone with no soul, no life, no reason to live except to kill, kill, kill." He smirks at her once he's closer, drawing himself up to within an inch of her, his voice barely a whisper. "Maybe I should start over. Elle, Peter, Nathan.. all of them. Maybe.. I should start with you."

—-

Slam. Angela's eyes widen by increments, their whites flashing in the dark, a swell of fear and pain. She twists her neck to the right, muscles straining, popping, trying to fight the pressure that keeps her pinned to the wall. She knows it's futile, however. "You can channel it," she manages to croak out. Under the strain of being pressed by the invisible force, her voice is distorted into a crushed, breathless version of itself.. The woman fights to catch Sylar's eyes once more, to lock on, connect. "I can give you a reason— a purpose— I can be what you need— "

—-

"What reason?! What purpose?!" Sylar's voice raises, his harsh tone and words echoing off of the walls of the broken shop. "I've seen the way people look at me, the ones that know who I am, what I was! Peter's friend at the lab! That girl on the street! His brother! Claire! I'm just a monster!" Still, despite his protests, the pressure on Angela's throat decreases by the slightest amount; it certainly isn't much, but it's there. "I don't even know how Elle can even stand to be in the same room with me."

—-

"Because she's a sociopath," Angela answers, taking a sharp gasp of breath — it comes in a rush when her body seems to realize it can get that much more. "You're a killer— you're not a monster. Not everyone is capable of seeing the difference, but I am." Wine-painted nails claw at the wall behind her. "You can embrace your gift without destroying everything around you. I believe that. I believe you can— use your ability for good." Because good is relative, remember. "I can help you. Stop." The last is a plea.

—-

"You're right. I am a killer." The reply is simple, Sylar's gaze cold and calculated. Ring and pinky finger curl inward, index and middle pointed directly at Angela's forehead. A thrill courses through Sylar's body at what is about to come, memories of previous murders playing through his mind. Dale Smith. Brian Davis. Ted Sprague. All of those that have fallen victim to Sylar's murderous hunger.

A plea. Stop. A single word from Angela, but the situation is all too familiar. The last time he found himself hurting someone like this he was able to stop. His hand trembles slightly as he watches Angela, but ultimately, he doesn't do it. He drops his hand, and at the same time, Angela will find herself falling to the floor. His gaze, however, is still that of Sylar's. A lost, childish boy who's confused and doesn't know where to turn. "How can you help me?"

—-

Angela catches herself on her knees and hands, but only for an instant - she slides all the way down. Palms pressing against the floor, aging fingers hovering over bits of debris, she speaks. "I can teach you how to concentrate your abilities where they're needed." The woman's voice is fraught with more desperation than usual, all things considered - but as she pushes herself up, holding one arm out for balance, she seizes self-control once more. Strands of dark hair have dislodged from their immaculate twist and block one eye. "There are threats you would be particularly skilled at eliminating. Some people call it justice."

—-

Turning away from Angela, Sylar looks at the floor, using a foot to push away some of the debris in front of him. It's a distraction, something to keep him from looking at Angela while she speaks. Her last words, however, catch his attention, and he slowly turns around to face her once again. "… 'eliminating'? 'Justice'? I try to tell you that I don't want to be a killer, no longer a monster… and this is what you want me to do?" He shakes his head, eyes narrowing— but there's no attack. No, he's through with Angela. While he doesn't doubt that their paths will cross again in the grand scheme of things, this is not what he needs to hear. He came so close to killing again, and he doesn't need someone telling him that's what he can continue to do. Especially with the hunger gnawing at his mind, telling him to take her power right here, right now. "… you're just like Arthur. That's exactly what he wanted me to do. I told him I wouldn't.. and I'm telling you the same thing." With that said, he turns away from her, heading towards the door.

—-

Sharp anger flares in the woman's gaze at the mention of her husband. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe there's a reason?" Still feeling lingering effects from her struggle against the wall, Angela takes a few winded steps after Sylar, but no further. "To deny your hunger is to deny the lot you've been given; you'll never be happy," she says, speaking quick as he makes to leave. "The best you could do is use your ability to prevent others from taking the lives of innocents. Innocents like those you've murdered. Some call that redemption."

—-

Coming to a stop just in front of the door, Gabriel places his hand on the doorknob, turning his head to glance back at Angela. "I'll find redemption my own way. Without killing." He turns the handle, pulls the door open, but just before he disappears through it, he turns his head back to give Angela one final, cold look. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but all he does is shut the door behind him.

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