Night 51: Staff-Only Kitchen

[darwinism]

[ From here. ]

Even the kitchen here looked spruced up and colorful, though Sylar didn't give much of a damn about that as he started rummaging through the drawers and cabinets for any kill-friendly utensils. So far, though, he was having surprisingly little luck: mixing bowls and stirring spoons weren't exactly going to help him in his efforts against Peter Petrelli unless his nefarious plan involved sitting him down and serving him waffles or something. Maybe if they were poisoned? That'd be kind of funny.

"How about something sharp," he muttered as he yanked open another compartment. Rolling pin. Yeah, if he was going to choose a blunt instrument to flail around, that wasn't the one. Finally, he tugged on one of the smaller drawers and found it jammed somehow, which, unfortunately, was probably a good sign. Peering down at it, he jostled the contents and pulled it out the whole way, revealing a mess of utensils, and...

"There you are." Sylar smirked as he drew out a long, thin carving knife and held it to the light of his flashlight. Polished and gleaming. He wouldn't mind having this while going up against some freak-of-nature monster.

He placed it on the counter and retraced his kitchen-raiding steps with a little more leisure and open-mindedness. A couple of cake testers might make for better lock-picking tools, for instance.

But he wasn't about to load himself down with too much unnecessary equipment. Snatching up his knife again, he started making his way out of the kitchen, a smile on his face.

[ Awaiting Elle encounter. ]

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[highvoltagegirl.livejournal.com]

Peter's words from their meeting at breakfast kept replaying in her head, only intensified by the words Sylar was throwing at her now. She had been here before, but she couldn't remember. Sylar killed her, but she couldn't remember.

Would he try again? Or did the first time leave him satisfied enough? She didn't know. She could never predict what Sylar was going to do. Not now, not when he was Gabriel Gray. But the fact that she was there with him, alone in the dark, in this secluded area, in this tiny room, was enough to rack chills down her spine. Who would come if he tried something? If she screamed? She'd seen a couple people wandering the second floor, but how far could her voice possibly carry? And what if she attracted the wrong thing?

"Don't think I won't hurt you. 'Cause I will." Her words came from behind clenched teeth. It felt like every muscle in her body was tense, poised, waiting to run or attack but not able to decide which to actually do.

She needed to shock him. It was her initial response to any dangerous situation, and it felt like every fiber of her being was crackling with the as of yet unused potential. But Elle was still frozen in place. She couldn't let go of the baseball bat or the flashlight, because her hands refused to listen to her. Her feet wouldn't listen to any attempts to step back, let alone run.

"Do you even know what you did to me?"

[darwinism]

Sylar knew. He knew all too well, which was exactly what he told himself as he tried to keep himself under control. The doctor might've done a number on Sylar's body, but he hadn't screwed up his head. Sylar was well aware of what he'd done to Elle: even if the doctor had been telling the truth about Elle's true intentions (and he probably wasn't), she'd been annoying and she'd had power. That alone was enough to justify her death, especially with Peter Petrelli watching.

Peter. Did Peter know about Elle showing up? If he didn't, then Sylar had better end her life before the idiot got some stupid ounce of hope from it, because it sure seemed like Elle was aware of the situation. Come to think of it, the way she was acting was a little... unusual. Sylar had heard about patients coming back to life without any of their previous memories in the nuthouse, but Elle's words and her genuine terror made it clear that she did have them, and that made this out of the norm. Dangerous.

Which was exactly what he didn't want Elle to figure out. The analysis was helping: his body was relaxing, his pain clearing. He chanced a glance down at his left hand; he could see the scar. He was okay.

But Elle wouldn't be.

He slowly raised his eyes to hers as the same sense of control spread through his body. He could see her clearly now: she was scared, and though Sylar knew that she was armed with more than just a couple of blunt objects, so was he.

"If you want to try something, be my guest," he said, eyes fixed on her face as he tried to take in every nuance of her expression, every sign of what her irrational mood might bring. He turned the knife so that he was holding it face-down, then raised his hand, gently pulling two fingers from the handle. Concentrating carefully on his own exertion of power, he made a small spark between the two fingers, just enough to be visible across the room. The flicker of light glinted across his grinning teeth and cast shadows across his face as he raised his brow questioningly.

"But I think you remember how that turned out last time."

[highvoltagegirl.livejournal.com]

Did he just—

He did.

Peter hadn't been lying. She knew he hadn't been lying. Why would Peter lie? He had no reason, and even if he did, Elle doubted his ability to be convincing. But still, having Peter tell her one thing and seeing the proof of it standing before her were two entirely different things. That was her electricity, and he was flaunting it.

In a brash move, rushed and driven by raw adrenaline, Elle let the bat fall to the ground in a loud, unceremonious clatter. Blue sparks crackled in her palm.

"No." Her voice was low and dark. Coldness in her eyes reflected from the current in her hand. "You don't remember what happened the last time you messed with me."

She wasn't sure if she wanted to tell him. Not exactly. While it was a victory in the sense that she survived, she still managed to enable a slew of dangerous prisoners escape and was more or less fired for it. He didn't need to know that part. She had wanted to keep going and tell him exactly how he'd ruined her life, detailing out a list from the day she ever set foot in that stupid dirty repair shop, but she couldn't let herself. No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't show her weaknesses. Not now. Although she'd considered it when her power was malfunctioning at its worst, when she couldn't sleep or eat or even breathe without electricity overflowing her system, she didn't want to die. Not here, and not by his hand.

[darwinism]

The show had earned Sylar exactly what he wanted. His smirk widened as Elle started gearing up for a fight, and where he'd just felt nervous and tense, he now felt... anticipation. Excitement, even. He watched with visceral satisfaction at every small indication of pain on Elle's features and how they added up into one terrible, beautiful expression. Would it really be such a bad thing if he let her live? It'd be one more person like Peter and Claire, one more source of control and power, one more reminder of the life he'd lived and which he'd one day return to.

But it'd also be one more obstacle to overcome, and he had plenty of those already.

Including the way Elle was acting. He couldn't help but let an unsure crease creep into his otherwise smug expression as he heard her voice, cold and calmer than her overall body language. Her emphasis wasn't on the right words – in fact, her words didn't make much sense unless she was babbling out big threats incoherently, but... Sylar wasn't so sure if that's what this was. She might've been angry and irrational, but her conviction told him that she wasn't making things up. He was missing something here.

And whatever it was, he'd have plenty of time to figure it out after he got away. Right now, he just needed to be aware enough to keep her unstable while he made his escape; he could still feel the potential of electricity in his system, but he could also feel the slight aftershocks of something else, something far less helpful. Stay focused, he told himself.

"Really?" he said out loud, looking only slightly strained as he tried slowly sidling toward the wall to his right, the one nearer to the door. "Funny, considering I remember you bleeding out on the ground."

It wasn't much, but it'd have to do for now. He racked his brains memories of his previous encounters with Elle, looking for anything specific he could use against her. She'd been frisky, that was for sure, and aside from Peter, she'd also been friendly with–

"Eddie," he added suddenly, clicking his tongue. "I bet he would've loved to see you then."

[highvoltagegirl.livejournal.com]

As he slid toward the wall, a small sense of victory began to settle over her. Was he really trying to escape her? Maybe he didn't remember, but he knew. Knew enough to fear her.

"Seriously? You gave me a scape." She knew what he was referring to, what he had to be referring to, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of recognition. "A little scape. Big deal. I knocked you out cold. You probably would have died if--"

If he didn't have Claire's power. But did he here, now? Something was wrong with everyone that she knew who had also ended up here in Landel's. They were all on seemingly different timelines; nothing was adding up. Well, she wouldn't give that to Sylar, either. He didn't need the hope or satisfaction of knowing he'd be getting the pony he always wanted this Christmas.

"You got lucky." That was better.

His words made her take pause and start racking her brain. Did she even know an Eddie? It was possible; she'd done a lot of flirting with the Company's wards. But they never meant anything. She couldn't be bothered to remember the names of most of them. They always went away (with the exception of Adam, who was a mistake for other reasons.) On rare occasions, they became agents, but it was more usual that they ran tests on them. Just like Elle, but with none of her resilience.

But why would Sylar know any of that? He couldn't possibly have access to any of that information.

Hence, the face Elle made in return to Sylar's jab was blank, with a slight hint of irritation more than anything else. Probably not the result he'd been seeking.

"Who the fuck is Eddie?"

[darwinism]

A "little scrape"? Well, sure, Elle was right if that's what she called her blood splattered across the wall like some kind of modern art installation. She must've been really out of it in her final moments if she thought Sylar had given one inch in that fight, let alone gotten knocked out. Sure, Peter had tried to save her, but the idiot's constant depression pretty much settled how much he'd succeeded. Once again, Sylar wondered if Elle had run into him already. He goddamn hoped not.

But even if she had, it didn't explain why she kept looking so... in control. Sylar hadn't been trying to inspire this kind of anger – dangerous anger, and the fact that he was missing a vital piece to the situation's puzzle was starting to genuinely unsettle him.

And then came the kicker.

Sylar froze against the wall, his eyes focusing on his prey with renewed intensity. A series of explanations ran through his head – selective memory loss, damage from his own exploration, some kind of brainwashing common to these parts – before he realized the obvious.

Timelines. They'd been mentioned a million times on the boards before the nurses had tightened their leash on the info and he suspected he'd come across examples of it before. Elle didn't remember Eddie, which meant she didn't remember being here. Elle did remember Sylar, but since she didn't remember being here, she must've known him from home. Since Sylar didn't remember her from home...

Wait. That wasn't right. He did remember her. In fact, he realized with a chill down his spine, she was the very last thing he remembered before waking up here, just before her electricity had slammed him into that wall of glass.

Just before she'd knocked him out.

Comprehension flooded him in a wave of relief. He was getting the reins on this problem again, although a nagging incongruity kept him from feeling completely at ease: why was she so damn angry? According to her words and hesitation, something had prevented her from offing him back at Suresh's lab, something that she resented. There was something personal in this for her, and given that Sylar had never met her in his old life, he had no idea what it could be.

Then again, he'd killed a hell of a lot of people. Probably revenge.

But Sylar had no idea who Elle was getting revenge for, and he had to handle this delicately now that he knew he was missing a few cards from his hand. He'd already screwed his chances for control by letting on that he was at a loss for information, but of course, the best way to fix a mistake was to harness it. Elle didn't know who Eddie was. But she once had. And she'd once known Sylar, which meant that Sylar knew her.

"'Who's Eddie?'" Sylar echoed in disbelief, narrowing his eyes as if he were scrutinizing her – and he was. "Your little boytoy...? My... partner in crime...?"

His eyes widened, then he raised his head as if in slow realization. He smiled coldly. "Oh. I see."

He took one step toward her, strategically. He leaned forward just so. "Guess that's what happens to failures."

[highvoltagegirl.livejournal.com]

Guess that's what happens to failures? What kind of line was that? What was he trying to imply? Everything he said made no sense. It didn't add up. She wanted to be offended, wanted to hurt him, but how could she when she didn't even know what he was talking about? That Sylar hurt yet another person wasn't surprising, but apparently this Eddie guy was supposed to be a big deal to her.

"I don't care what you did to your boyfriend. Big deal. You know what you did to me? You killed my father. You KILLED him!"

She couldn't deny that it felt good to finally get the anger out. Fuck being strong. It wasn't worth it. Elle's emotions started manifesting physically, blue sparks trailing across her skin and lighting her up like a christmas tree in the darkness of the kitchen.

It took everything in her not to scream. This wasn't supposed to be happening. All this electricity was supposed to be directed at Sylar. He was supposed to be the one writhing in pain.