2007-11-18: Killers

Starring:

Claire_icon.gif Peter_icon.gif Sylar_icon.gif

Guest Starring:

???

Summary: A killer comes to take what he's wanted. Two people who have never killed, make steps to becoming killers themselves.

Date It Happened: November 18th, 2007

Killers


Queens - The Bennet House

One more time. The epic struggle for Sylar to actually /secure/ Claire's power for his own has been a rough one. Many disappointments, interferences, and the ever annoying Peter Petrelli have stood in his way. Not today. He knows exactly where he's going, and exactly what he's going to do. This time, he's going to make sure Peter knows. Know that he's going to lose Claire. Then, as soon as the words fall on Peter's ears…

Up the walk and to the front door, the serial killer pauses for just a moment to let a smirk creep across his face. He's been waiting for this for a long time. He raises his hand, making a fist, and raps his knuckles against the door sharply.

Popping one last bite of her cupcake into her mouth, Claire makes her way towards the door. She's actually gone to the trouble today of getting dressed, sorta. It's grey running pants with a yellow stripe, and a yellow hoodie today. Wiping the corners of her mouth as she reaches the door, the blonde then wipes down her hands on her pants before leaning to the side to look out the little windows that stand on either side of the door before she actually unlatches the thing. She chooses a window to the left, pulling aside the white sheers and peering onto the porch.

The sociopath lowers his hand as soon as he knocks, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorframe. He waits, somehwat impatiently, hoping the door opens soon. Whether it's Claire, Sandra, or Noah that opens the door, he's ready. For all he knows, there's no one here that will be able to stop him. Certainly not Claire or Sandra. Noah may pose somewhat of a problem, but he's easily disposed of.
At the movement of the sheers, Sylar's head snaps in that direction, leaning slightly over so he can better see who is on the other side. Once he sees blonde hair, blue eyes, and that pretty little face of Claire's, he begins to smile, a look of accomplishment crossing his face. "Claire," he says, whether she's able to hear him or not, and he twists his fingers in a strange motion, the smirk on his face growing. The door just unlocked itself. After all, it's highly doubtful she's just going to let him in for cupcakes.

The muffled sound of Sylar's voice does indeed cut through the glass as he turns so that she can see him fully, and it's enough to snap Claire out of her terrified reverie. There's a cry as the sheers fall back into place, abandoned as the blonde with her cute little side ponytail tears up the stairs just to her right when she wheels around. There's the closest thing that she can climb, the fastest way to get sheer distance. And … and maybe she'll be lucky and he'll think she went down the hall into the kitchen.

Never mind the thudding stairs as her white, ankle sock-clad feet pound their terrified rhythm up the flight. To her room. Where the door locks. Where there's a phone. However, she only gets so far as 'to room' and 'lock door' before she slams her back against the door, gasping for breath with eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Oh, cat and mouse. The endless game Sylar and Claire play. As soon as she turns around and tears off up the stairs, Sylar places his hand on the doorknob, turning it and opening the door. He steps inside, making sure to close it behind him (after all, closed doors help muffle the sound of screaming) as he enters the house. He takes a look around, trying to determine where the girl as gone. The sound of her feet pounding the stairs is more than enough indication, and he heads that way, only two steps up when he hears the door to her room slam. He quickly ascends, choosing a random door and hoping it's the one she darted into. He raises his hand, and much like the front door, raps his knuckles sharply against it. "Don't run, Claire," he calls out. "Make this easy. For both of us."

The strange politeness is not lost on Claire, and for a girl who isn't a SOCIOPATH it doesn't make much sense. As she hears his feet fall on the stairs, she slides down the door. Okay, Claire. Don't panic. Do. Not. Panic. You can do this. You can DO THIS.

She opens her eyes for a moment and then he raps on her parents' bedroom door. Those eyes shut again, briefly, as he speaks her name again, the sound of it like poison on the air. Claire, she wills herself, GET UP. GET. UP. Summoning every ounce of courage she has, she pushes herself to her feet and then to the pretty little sit-at vanity that her mother bought for her. Opening the French Provencial white drawer, the blonde reaches inside and pulls out the thing that she managed to get her hands back on and never told her parents about.

A company issue pistol. Much like the one that she held up against Peter a year ago and the precise one held against Sylar mere months ago, she levels the thing at the door with shaking hands. It's time to put an end to this. And she is GOING to do it this time. She's done with hiding. Done with him hurting her family and her friends.

She is not telling her mother and brother that they have to move again.

One trembling finger switches off the safety.

Come and get her.

This is taking much too long. Every second he wastes searching for Claire is a second she has to somehow contact help. Or for the milkman to show up. Or, heaven forbid, for Peter Petrelli to show up. Not this time. He can't lose again. He's suffered enough defeat at the hands of this girl, whether it was her doing or not, and he'll suffer no more. Stepping back from the door he just knocked on, he moves to the middle of the hallway, closing his eyes in concentration. A hand slowly raises, and there's a sharp flick of the wrist— any door that isn't locked opens on its own, slowly, and a smirk crosses the killer's face once again. There's another brief moment of concentration, and then the killer disappears, a soft shimmer taking place of where he once was.

Claire's door stays locked, and the blonde can't hear the others open. The shaking's getting worse, and she clenches her jaw to keep them from chattering. Blue eyes are pried open, afraid to blink. Her lungs are loosing shuddering exhalations and struggle to bring in fresh air, afraid to breathe. Her resolve, however, is unwaivering. She swallows hard to get the lump out of her throat. She will be the cat in this game, lying in wait. He'll come. And then she'll kill him.

With every door opening but Claire's, logic would show that this is the door the girl is hiding behind. Pausing for the slightest moment to savor the feel of the hunt, Sylar then turns towards the door, taking two steps in its direction. There's a twist of the fingers, much like before on the front step, and the door unlatches. Then, with another flick of the wrist, the door opens itself, opening a few inches before slowly, very slowly opening itself to reveal the hallway beyond.. where Sylar is nowhere to be seen.

It doesn't matter. As soon as that lock flicks open, Claire starts firing. One shot. Two steps forward in a smooth arc of the door. Another shot. Two more steps. Another shot. Smooth, in perfect time. By the time she's actually in front of the door, she's standing there, pressing the trigger on empty rounds. Her breath is barely more than a shiver as she stands there, gun still held up high and unyielding. Please, be dead. Please, please, please, be dead.

Let the nightmare be over.

The shots ring out, echoing loudly through the hallway, but they don't hit their target. They embed into the wall beyond the door, wood splintering and crunching under the force of the bullets. There's a low, deep chuckle from Sylar, which echoes weirdly and surreally off of the walls of the hallway. "Claire," he says, just a whisper, and then suddenly, he's right in front of her. He appears from nowhere, hands already on their way to her shoulders as he shimmers into view. He places them there, a smirk growing across his face, and the way he tilts his head seems as if it's almost in.. disappointment. "Haven't you learned?"

Sylar… is touching her. "No!" Her cry is desperate and filled to bursting with horror. She was supposed to KILL HIM. Before it can really process, however, Claire is attempting to turn so she might race towards the window of her terribly girly and frilly bedroom with every intention to dive out of it.

As soon as he's got her in his hands, she's out of them again. When the girl turns towards the direction of the window, Sylar is already waiting for it. "Not so fast," he says, bringing a hand up and to the right, fully intending to slam her against the nearby wall. "I'm not through with you yet. You have something I want, and I'm going to take it."

There are some things about telekinesis that really suck. This would be one of them. There's another scream as Claire feels that unsettling invisible force about her, and rapidly connects with the wall, hitting her forehead against it. She's sufficiently dazed by it and a tiny groan escapes her lips as evidence, the once-cheerleader blinking hard to try to dispel the fuzziness that's clouding her brain.

Barking comes from downstairs in the form of Mr. Muggles. Hey, scary man, don't kill his mealticket.

"There's someone who would like to hear this," Sylar says, using telekinesis to keep Claire held against the wall. He walks forward, coming to a stop just a few feet in front of her, his eyes traveling up to meet her's. He pulls a cell phone from his pocket, keying in a series of numbers. He presses send, and switches it over to speakerphone, so that the ringing on the other end fills the room.

He… He's going to suck her brain out and he's taking time out to call somebody?! If Claire wasn't trying her hardest to not just break out into terrified sobs from her spot on the wall, she'd be downright indignant about it. Instead, she heaves breath against the force pressing her stomach against the wall. "You are going to regret this," she offers with a warning sneer, probably with the same effectiveness as the Pomeranian downstairs who's trying to warn off the intruder.

Miles and Burroughs away in Manhattan, Peter sits in his apartment at his computer, frowning at something that he's been working on for quite some time. Multiple windows are opens, using Notepad because it's the simplest of all the programs to use and doesn't require much from him but typing, returns and tabs. The phone resting beside his laptop rings, the ringtone generic due to the number not being recognized as one with a special ring. Reaching over, he looks at the number— doesn't recognize it at all, and but answers. It could be Elle, she said she'd call him. It could be one of the half dozen people he's given his number to, who didn't give numbers in return.

"Hello?"

There's the distinctive *click* of someone answering the other line, and when Peter's voice comes through the phone, the killer smirks again. "Hello, Peter," he says, his voice low, but loud enough to carry across the phone. "I believe there's someone who has something to say to you…" Sylar looks up at Claire, extending the phone in her direction. He gives her approximately two seconds before he raises his free hand, two fingers extending and pointing directly at her forehead. "She wants to say goodbye." His smirk grows wider, but his eyes betray the hunger inside of him as he begins to cut her forehead, using his telekinesis to rip through flesh and bone as the cut starts near her temple.

The blonde on the wall is trying to to somehow squirm free. To get clear. To break Sylar's hold. But she's failing. Then Sylar makes it that much worse by calling her uncle.

Claire's voice cuts into the air, with a clarity and speed that surprises her, trying to get out the guilt and horror that is sinking into the core of her being. Sylar is going to make him listen to her die. "Peter? Peter, I'm so sorry, I tri—" And then it starts. Her eyes shoot upward for a brief moment with a gasp, only to squeeze tightly shut. It's a delayed reaction, burning cold giving way to searing heat, only to become something that can only be described as agony. Once those eyes are shut, however, her mouth opens to release an ear-piercing scream, high and shrill.

"Sylar," Peter says in a thick voice, immediately dipping toward tension as he stands up, knocking his chair over with a crack. He doesn't get much further than a step back when he hears what the man says, and then… her voice. That gets cut off with a familiar sound. "Claire!" he yells into the phone. No time. There's no time. Closing his eyes, he uses the screams to make him think of two people. Claire. Sylar. Where are they? Flash. A room. Frilly girl things. She's barely wearing outside clothes. Of course, she still hasn't left home. That's fortunate, cause he's been there before, more or less.

Eyes still closed, phone still in hand, there's a distorted noise over the speaker phone, likely masked by the screams.

Not long after at all, there's someone else in the room. Someone throwing a normal strength, but still no joke, punch right at Sylar's face. And he's still holding his phone in the other hand.

The killer's eyes almost shine with the hunger, and he's so close he can feel it. He draws his finger across Claire's forehead, the slow cutting digging deeper into her skull, about halfway across her forehead. "Not long now," he breathes, desperate and anxious to open her skull and take her power. Then.. then it all goes south.

The arrival of Peter throws Sylar off. How— how could he have known where he was? It wasn't supposed to be like this. This keeps happening. Peter. Peter Petrelli.

The punch lands home, taking Sylar completely off guard, and the killer goes down. His telekinetic hold on Claire is released, leaving the poor girl to fall to the floor. The sociopath's head snaps in Peter's direction, and he mutters, no, practically growls one single word. "You." He makes a fist, both out of anger and preparation, and with a sharp, sudden twist of the arm, he throws his hands in Peter's direction, the blue, arcing electricity in his palm flying across the room towards Peter.

Claire falls to the floor at that, landing in a heap and getting blood all over the carpet in the process and not moving right away. But at least the screaming's stopped.

The cellphone, still on, is tossed across the floor towards his niece. Peter doesn't have time to give her much in the way of an instruction, because the other man recovers faster than she does— but at least he's pretty sure she'll be getting back up from that. The ball of blue electricity flies toward him, and the fist that punched him opens— and he will totally apologize to Mr. Bennet later for this, but he thinks saving his daughter is a small price to pay for home destruction.

The bolt hits him, in the shoulder, but not before he's reaching out toward the wall where the bathroom is connected, and pulling. Sheetrock rips away, but that won't do much. It's the pipes that might cause a problem. He doesn't rip them out so much as crack one or two enough to send a spray of water around the room. Water— being one of this abilities weaknesses.

As soon as his attack is over, Sylar is pushing himself to his feet, his hands already sparking and crackling with electricity. He tenses his hands, the electrical sparks increasing and growing stonger as he prepares to send jolts of lightning Peter's way, but the cracking sheetrock and subsequent cracking of the pipes is enough to make this ability useless. Water hits Sylar, landing on his hands, and what happens next is not good for the killer. Water and electricity mix, the electrical current finding the least path of resistance.. which just happens to be most of Sylar's upperbody, sprayed as it is with water. The electricity travels up his arm and to his chest, Sylar not quick enough to stop the power before he's already getting shocked.
He lets out a noise of pain, his shirt burning and smoldering from the electricity as he falls to a knee. "You—" he begins, but interrupts himself as he raises a hand, crawling forward to avoid the spraying water as a sheet of ice begins to form on his hand.

"Had that ability a bit longer than you, Sylar," Peter says in a whispered voice, pained even as he straightens from the electricity that hit him in the shoulder, scorched through his shirt to burn skin. There's a hole in his shirt too, fabric blackened around where the electricity entered his body to get absorbed into his system. Unlike the man whom he drenched— he's already healed from it, but he still sounds pained. As he's damp too now, the use of ice might be a tad alarming— His eyes shift to Claire's position on the floor, where she's staying down, quiet.

Problem with the water. It benifits ice, and it keeps him from using electricity as well. So instead he keeps holding onto the ability he already accessed to rip open the wall, and reaches for Sylar. The force of his mind grasps at him, "We should take this outside." Which must be what he intends to do when he fully attempts to fling the taller man at the window that a young teenager girl intended to jump through not too very long ago.

Hand frozen over in ice, Sylar places the hand against the floor, where water is already gathering at an alarming rate. The moment he makes contact the water begins to freeze over, the ice spreading rapidly across the floor. The water spraying from the broken pipes adds fuel to the fire, so to speak, and the ice keeps spreading and growing as Sylar keeps his hand against it. He isn't sure what exactly it's going to do to help him against Peter, but it may distract the Petrelli long enough so Sylar can get the upperhand.
Peter seems rather intent on keeping the upperhand himself, however, what with attempting to throw Sylar out the window. He succeeds, too, and the killer goes flying, crashing through the glass and flying out into the yard, landing with a soft thud in the grass. A small, pitiful moan escapes him, and he attempts to sit up, struggling with the task.

The ice does do something— it freezes around Peter's shoes, forcing him to force his feet out of the sheet of ice that's keeping him nailed to the floor. If it wasn't for the other man flying through the window, this might have left him more vulnerable to attack. As it is, it gives the man outside the window a few moments to attempt at sitting up.

And he is generous enough to give a few more as he turns toward his unresponsive niece on the floor, hoping that she's not frozen too much, as he says, "Claire? Call your dad."

He doesn't wait to see her move, or respond— the cellphone he tossed her way is still there, but he's sure she has a phone of her own, too.

Unlike the other man, when he jumps out the window, he has a little better luck slowing his fall, though he does hit the ground rather heavy anyway, bending his legs and making a jarred sound. Hovering is not his strongest ability, and neither was landing.

"I've been to the future, Sylar," he says, tone not conversational, but he's not tossing abilities around just yet. "I saw you die. I could change so much by making that happen a few years early."

"I'll… never die," Sylar says, his eyes full of anger as he struggles to make it to his feet. He gets halfway, coming to rest on one knee, and he looks up at Peter. "I'll kill you. I'll kill your family. I'll kill Claire. I'll kill every single one of them. It's only a matter of time, Peter. You can't stop me. I'll grow stronger and stronger until I've ruined everything that you know."

The movement is sudden and quick— Sylar's right hand flies forward, a telekinetic burst of energy flinging its way at Peter with the intent of slamming him into the house behind him.

The words that are spoken startle Peter for some reason, eyebrows raising a fraction, mouth opening. "You…" he starts, but then the blast of telekinetic energy hits him. Flying backward, he impacts the house with a thud that cracks the siding. Rebounding off the wall, he lands on the ground nearby, stunned by the impact, and pushing back up to look at the other man.

His opposite. The man who killed him once before, took his place, and destroyed or tried to destroy everything that he might have cared about.

"I'm stronger than you," he mutters as he pushes himself up. "You may be more powerful… but I have things that you can't."

"Then I'll take them FOR MYSELF!" Sylar screams, his anger bursting through him and fueld his rage. He was going to have it. He was finally going to get Claire's power, and he would never be able to die. So close. Again. So. Close. He was going to take Claire's power, and then he could never die… but Peter, Peter Petrelli, once again has stopped him. The yin to his yang. Using his anger to fuel himself, he raises his hand towards Peter, and once again attempts to fling the other man into the house, this time much harder than the last.

This time, the siding gets broken completely, splintering some wood under it, shaking the windows nearby and knocking things down in the house as well. When Peter slides down to hit the ground with a shudder, some of the insulation shows. He's slower to push himself up to look at him this time. "I'm not talking about abilities, Sylar." He says, voice thicker. The pain bleeding through as he gets to his feet. "But you'll never understand that. Because it's not about taking." The broken pieces of siding that shattered when he slammed into him, quiver, lift up, and flying in the direction of the other man.

"It's.. all I have," Sylar says, his voice ragged with rage, fatigue, and the fact he was thrown out of a second story window. "You don't understand." The killer raises his hand once more, fully intent on slamming Peter into the house again. He'll continue to slam the Petrelli into the house until he's mush, if he has to. He'll kill him. He will. "I'll kill you," he says, voice still broken with rage, "I'll do whatever it takes. I'll—" Sylar is interrupted by the flying pieces of siding, some of which slam directly into him, others just glancing off of his arms and legs, the splintered wood digging into his flesh and ripping it. He lets out a scream of pain this time, falling forward onto the ground, just barely catching himself, arms shaking under the strain of keeping himself up.

There's blood dripping down his forehead— tears in his clothes. Peter very likely may have broken his ribs both the times he got slammed into the building. The third time it's more obvious, because when he pushes back up, he spits blood out, indicating internal bleeding. He's not looking too great either, but he gets back up to his feet, the wounds fix over. "I do understand," he says in the same strained voice, moving a little closer. "What it's like to feel— that your powers are the only thing that you have." In fact, not too long ago, he said almost the exact same words to someone very different.

"I want my powers to help people. To defend them. You're just a monster. And if I don't stop you now— you'll just keep coming back." The Company can't hold him. Few are capable of stopping him. The determination isn't there in his voice, though, there's hesitation. And it's still there when he raises his hand in the man's direction. Especially noticeable when nothing happens besides that. Is he just going to wait to get slammed into the house again?

The killer doesn't move an inch, but rather stays in his weak, defeated position at the hands of Peter. "You can't do it, can you," Sylar says, somehow able to manage an amused smirk despite his condition, "you can't kill me. Despite everything I've said, everything I've done, you still can't do it." Sylar raises his head, making eye contact with Peter. "Do it. Kill me. There's nothing left for me. All I ever wanted was— if I'm such a monster— do it. Isn't that what you want, Peter? To kill me? To defend your friends and family?"

The hand stays up, even as the other man makes eye-contact— and then outright tells him to do it. Peter blinks once, fingers pulling back, indicating further hesitation. There's a moment where it looks like his hand might drop all-together, and then it lifts all the way up again, jaw setting, standing up straighter. "I want to protect everyone. I've seen what you do. I've seen what you become. What you'll take from me. What you'll take from everyone." That determination sets into his voice again, but the hesitation— mostly indicated by the pause, and in the whispered, "And I can't let you…"

With that, he shifts his hand, reaching out to grab at the man's neck, much like had been done to him over a year ago in Kirby Plaza.

He tries to push himself up, but Sylar isn't able to. He's barely able to keep himself on his arms and knees as it is. He listens to what Peter has to say, but the killer seems to have nothing to respond with. He stays there, motionless, and only when Peter grabs him by the neck does he have something to say. The single word he utters comes with remorse, hatred, wanting, regret, anger, pleading, sadness. "Please."

The determination is there, lowering eyebrows as his gaze steels, jaw tense, teeth locked together— The stance is one of readiness, hand grasping tightly at the air, muscles visible though the shirt that's too thin for the weather and badly damaged from their fight. However— it slips. Peter hears that one word, the tone, and everything falls apart. He'd begun lifting Sylar up, intent to strangle him with his own ability— can't get more poetic than that. But the word. The grip loosens, breaks, dropping him, and the hand falls. "You want me to kill you," he says in a whispered tone, replaced with shock, confusion—

"Look at what I am," Sylar says, dropping to the ground, struggling to get up. "Son of a watchmaker. Nobody. Now I've become.. you know what I've become. A monster." He reaches a hand out, grasping the nearest thing he can, which just happens to be Peter's leg. His grip is tight, despite his state, and when he speaks, his eyes continue to stare at the ground. "You're the only one who can do it. I can't fight it. I'll keep killing until I have what I want. It's part of me. It… it /is/ me. There's nothing that can change that. Nothing to stop it." He looks up at Peter, and what Peter will see is not the usual Sylar. He's broken. He's been defeated too many times— he knows he doesn't want this life. Peter will always be there to stop him. "Kill me." Even as he's saying it, Sylar's hand is once again freezing over, ice spreading from his hand to Peter's leg. Whether it's an accident, unable to control his power, or something to provoke Peter into killing him, or even a last ditch attempt to gain the upperhand and kill Peter, all Peter has to go on is Sylar's words.

The words cause even more hesitation on Peter's part, but even more confusion. Then again, for all he knows— this is exactly how he killed him in the future— he has no idea how long he'd been replaced. And what better way to take everything that he has— than to become him. The ice spreading towards his leg makes him jump back, jeans freezing over, nipping at his skin through the fabric, but not freezing his leg entirely. More distance is put between them, and the hand raises back up. Perhaps provoked, or just defensive— nothing visible happens. No burst of electricity, or one of his other dozen odd powers— nothing tangable happens, except tension around his eyes, preceptions shifting, as he stretches out his mental perceptions.

The killer has no way to block an intrusion into his mind from Peter— and considering the condition he's in, his mind is an open book for the Petrelli. Peter may have never encountered such conflicted thoughts. Hatred, glee, remorse, sadness, anger, rage, happiness, wanting, and of course, the one thought that takes over all the others— the hunger. It basically controls his mind, pushing everything else out of the picture— but that doesn't mean it isn't there. Underneath it all is the person Sylar once was, a normal person. Son of a watchmaker. Before he came a monster. However, it's quite obvious that his monster side has nearly completely consumed him whole, as it's struggling to do right this moment.

Peter gets his insight into the mind of Sylar in what must be a whirlwind attack of information before, suddenly, it's cut off. An erratic grating sound takes over that which Peter hears with his telepathy and his mind is viciously attacked with dissonant high-pitched sound. Feedback.

From Sylar?

It's awfully hard to say, considering Sylar is no longer there. He pops out of sight with the suddenness of teleportation, not the shimmering of invisibility. There's nothing left but a spatter of blood and ice in the Bennet yard.

The mess of thoughts were already starting to give him a headache when Peter's suddenly hit by feedback. It causes him to physically flinch, jumping back, turning his head away and snapping mentally. As he does this, he catches the briefest sight of the other man popping out of existence— The feedback fades as the power drops, and he steps forward, looking around frantically. No trail of blood, no footsteps in the grass…

Sylar… Sylar finds himself on what appears to be an empty street not far from Claire's home. The last vestiges of day are gone, twilight laying in wait behind his crumpled form in the middle of the dark road.

A group of figures approaches, headed up the street in front of him. Three distinct forms, all in shadow — funny, the way the shadows cast from the streetlamp poles. Well-polished shoes stop mere inches away from the battered murderer.

"You're coming with us now, Gabriel." A man's voice declares. English accent. Sylar would just have to look up now to see the face, unfamiliar to him, of a white-bearded older gentleman. Linderman says, "Someone wants to see you."

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