Who: Sylar, Charlie McGee What: Sylar's on another list...Charlie's. Where: One of L.A.'s numerous, nondescript motels. When: Evening Rating: TBD Status Complete
He sat on the bed, and stared across the room at it. It lay on the table near the window, wrinkled from having been crumpled up (and almost tossed out) on a few occasions, but at the moment it was flattened out. Still, it lay face down, so that Sylar could not see the offending image on the other side. He didn’t need to see it, he knew exactly what it looked like, had memorized every single part of it.
It had been a few days since Isaac’s “precog” power had suddenly taken Sylar over and forced him to uncontrollably draw the picture - the picture of he and the cheerleader locked in a passionate embrace. He had been on the move since, ending up at a different small motel each day. This constant need to be in motion, not to mention his habit of breaking into vacant rooms rather than actually checking in, was a remainder from his days on the run from the FBI. He didn’t think anyone was after him in this world (perhaps Elle and Claire, although he wasn’t convinced they were brave enough to actually come looking for him), but he still felt like he was on the run. And, in a way, he supposed he was – on the run from the apparent future his hastily drawn image seemed to suggest.
Why would he kiss Claire Bennet? What could he gain from it? Ever since seeing the image he had tried to rationalize it in his head, over and over. It didn’t seem likely that it was simply part of some clever ruse he would concoct. After all, why would Bennet ever fall for that? And besides, if any sort of ruse did end in his finally killing Bennet once and for all, why wouldn’t the power have shown him that? Why focus on this one moment?
He had no answers to any of these questions, and usually wanted nothing more than to be able to stop thinking about it. But anytime he tried…anytime he crumpled the paper up and went to throw it away, something stopped him. A sort of sick curiosity had found its way into his head, where it tried to co-exist with the more dominant feeling of disgust. Even more worrisome were the couple occasions where a small sense of excitement had gnawed at his thoughts while looking at the image. He always quickly squelched those thoughts, convincing himself that it was simply the idea of something so wrong and preposterous that was amusing his sometimes too-normal mindset.
And so here he sat, the bloodlust he had felt for both Bennet and Elle Bishop currently taking a backseat to his confusion over this image. He could have sat like that for hours, if not for the sudden knock at his door…