Petrelli Family Values

Character: Angela, Peter, "Nathan", Sylar
Fandom: Heroes
Word count: 701
Rating: PG 13 - murder, blood, swearing
Notes: 'Verse Carny Queen, Nathan went a little crazy and had to be locked up. Sylar is trying to claw his way out like Alien.
Prompt: Tyler Durden: Hey, you created me. I didn't create some loser alter-ego to make myself feel better. Take some responsibility! for scifi_muses



It’s unacceptable. All that she’d done to save her son, to save Nathan, and he was locked up in a padded cell. This was Parkman’s fault. If he’d done what she asked, and come back to make sure Sylar didn’t come back, Nathan would be fine. Now she was juggling so much. Peter was pestering her. The press was trying to find out what was going on. Angela couldn’t count how much money she’d had to dish to cover up what was going on with the man who was supposed to be her son.

“Ma what are you doing now?” Peter demanded as he came into her office. He was still wearing his uniform from his ridiculous job. “They told me you’re moving Nathan to another hospital. I won’t be able to see him everyday if you do that. He needs me.”

“Peter, your brother is a United States Senator; he can’t stay in the ward of that place. It would be unseemly. There is no way in Hell I can keep this out of the press with him there.”

“I hate to break it to you, Ma, but the press already knows. Did you see New York One? Someone in the hospital took a video. Someone else got the security camera footage. Everyone knows Nathan had a nervous breakdown, Ma. You can’t cover this up,”

“Your brother will be treated with dignity and respect,” she snapped, sucking on her lips as Peter took a step back. This was all going to shit, and she had no idea how to stop it. Her dreams had been no help. If anything since Sylar became Nathan, they’d stopped working altogether. She could never sleep long enough for anything to come to her. “Something he can’t get in that place you work. He’ll be visited as often as possible by both of us.”

“Right like he was before this. Ma he called me three times, came to see me because something was wrong with him, and I didn’t help him. He was picking up abilities like I used to, but I couldn’t be bothered to help him. This is my fault.”

“Perhaps it is, dear.” Better for you to think that than know the truth, Peter. “Now let me finish the arrangements. Nathan can’t stay in that horrible place another night.”

***
The walls were closing in. He could feel them. Every time he opened his eyes, the wall was inches from his face, He’d tried to get away, but he was confined. The jacket made it hard to breathe, and he’d been screaming so long that his voice was gone. If the wall hadn’t been padded, he’d have bashed in his skull to make the voices and memories stop.

He wasn’t the first one to be locked in that room or wear that straight jacket.

“I’m here to see my son.” He looked up from the furthest corner in the room. His heart was pounding hard enough to rattle the buckles on the jacket. “Now open this door at once.”

He should love her, be relieved at the sight of her, but instead rage fills him. The walls of the room vibrate with it. He glares at her, eyes narrowed as Angela Petrelli walks in flanked by an orderly and another man he doesn’t know.

“Oh Nathan what have you done?” She steps carefully over the spongy floor to bend down. Her long nails scrape the stubble on his chin. “You’re not in there are you, Nathan. Neither one of you.” She lets out a deep sigh. “I’m disappointed in you, Gabriel. You’ve let me down again.”

Still wearing a face that isn’t his, he snaps at her fingers. His sharp teeth connect, tearing into the thin flesh and ripping a chunk out of her hand. Blood stains his teeth as she scrambles back with a cry and her men push him away. “I’ll kill you. Kill all of you.”

“That’s enough from you, Nathan.” Angela wraps a scarf around her injured hand and walks on shaky legs for the door. “You’ll be in a better place tomorrow, and you have better be a gentleman when I come to see you next time.”

The Intervention

This is a little fic I wrote in honor of "Pass, Fail" on Heroes. You know the one where Sylar kisses Claire.... blarg.... Where's the bucket?

Character: Sylar and TV Sylar

Fandom: Heroes

Word count: 1274

Rating: PG for swearing

Notes: My muse Sylar goes to chat with TV Sylar

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” The words are torn from my throat like a growl. I’d seen the previews, the promos, but I still hoped that it was some demented dream or hallucination. Week after week, year after year, I’ve faithfully watched my TV counterpart being ruined by official show canon. I kept quiet. Bitching to my faithful minions and occasionally denouncing publicly what should not be, but this is the last straw.

“Sylar/Claire! I do not fucking think so.” For a few brief seconds I consider throwing a brick through my television, but what good would that do? I’d be out a TV, and then I’d miss the final season of LOST. I have to find out about Juliet and Sawyer, and I’m still hoping they finally kill off whiny ass Jack. He’s more emo than Peter Petrelli, and there’s new Supernatural next week too. Two shows that aren’t written by dumb asses.

There’s only one thing I can do. I have to stop it. I have to stop them from ruining TV Sylar. If I don’t, his tattered, pathetic reality will creep into the real world, and I’ll spend all of my time saying. “I didn’t kiss Claire. I don’t want to do Claire. No I don’t love puppies and unicorns!”

Well I do like puppies. Who doesn’t? But I’ve got a reputation as a bad ass mother fucking serial killer to protect.

Placing my fingertips on the screen, I can feel the tingle of static electricity run up my arm, prickling the hair on my wrist. Concentrating the power that I ripped out of Hiro Nakamura’s brain, I force myself through the barrier that separates real life from fantasy, fact from fiction, my life from television, and push through into the inane two dimensional world TV Sylar exists in.

He’s trapped in amber, caught with his lips on Claire’s. She’s pinned to the sofa with his telekinesis, and the whole scene makes me want to puke.

“Where’s the bucket?”

Her watery green eyes shift from his to mine, blinking while she tries to process what she’s seeing. “Two of you? This is even better than I hoped and dreamed it would be.”

“Shut up!” We both say simultaneously.

“You’re me?” TVSylar shifts back away from Claire who’s holding her lips open like a flounder. “Are you in my head the way I was in Parkman’s?”

“Yeah sort of.” I sneer at them both. “I’m here to do an intervention, Sylar. I don’t like what you’re doing. I don’t like how you’re being written, and I hate that they’ve made you impotent.”

“Don’t use that word, OK.” He glares at me, showing a bit of the dark fire in his eyes that should be there all of the time. “Lydia said that to me last week.”

“That’s right she did, and do you know what you should have done, Sylar?” I pace around the sofa and drop down next to Claire. It’s not like her little legs take up that much space. She’s about as tall as an Ewok. “You should have either killed her or screwed her brains out. That’s what I do with my Lydia. The battle of wills we have before we hump like rabbits is epic. My minions love watching and reading about what we do together. But you, you’re a loser.”

“I can only do what they let me. It’s the writers. I can’t fight that.” He’s agitated and starts pacing. He hates being told he’s not perfect and special, one more thing they got right. “If you’re so smart, why don’t you tell me what I’m supposed to do about it?”

“First off, get rid of the cheerleader.” I grab Claire’s ankle and port her away to God knows where because I didn’t care enough to give her a destination.

“Wait I don’t have that power.” He drops onto the sofa where Claire’s head had been and turns to look at me. “What else can you do?”

“I have a lot of powers you don’t.” Including the one that lets me materialize a beer for each of us. “I get them by killing people not being the poster child for emo. You don’t need someone to love you. You’re not Peter Petrelli. You’re Sylar. You didn’t fight your way out of Tubby’s vacant brainpan to our extremely hot body to moon after insipid Claire Bennet. Why aren’t you killing Angela?”

“They haven’t written me killing Angela yet.”

For a moment I consider killing him and taking his place, so that I can do what needs to be done. But the fear of being trapped in his reality is enough to keep me from hitting him in the face with my bottle.

“You need to take charge, Sylar. You’re the star of the show. Make them fear you like they fear Leno. Make them write the stories the way you know they should be. If it had been me at Thanksgiving, I’d have saved dessert for after I’d killed Angela and Puppytrelli. Forrealsies, Sylar, kill first. Nom later.”

“So you’ve killed Angela and Peter? Did they do to you what they did to me?”

“Sort of, only I was trapped in my own head. I was hurt by what Parkman did, but I was never in his donut induced nightmare of a life. They nearly killed Gabriel, but once I got rid of Nathan’s memories it was just fine. I killed Angela, found my watch, and remembered all of who I am supposed to be. Do you have your watch, Sylar?”

“No I don’t.” His eyes flicker from his bare wrist to mine where the broken watch we’re named for sits. “I don’t know where it is.”

“Find it. Use the psychometry to remember who you’re supposed to be. Don’t dick around with Samuel and the blonde of the week. If the writers don’t do what you want, threaten to quit. They’ll be kissing your ass. You are the reason people watch Heroes.”

“What if they don’t fall for the bluff? What happens then? They could write Peter killing me.”

“Trust me. You’re made of solid gold, Sylar. They will do anything to keep you happy once you remind them to fear you. Fear is the ticket to power. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t. Anything else you want to bitch at me or blame me for?” He asks as he polished off the last of his beer.

“Not really. I’d have to be here for weeks to list all the mistakes they’ve made with you. Make them fear you. Make them hate you. You’ll like it better. Trust me. I love being feared and hated. It drives the minions crazy to see you with blood on your fingers.”

“So you’re saying kill or be killed?”

“No I’m saying kill or die of boredom – yours and your viewers. You’ve got to hate what they’re doing to you. I swear if I see you cry on screen again, I’m going to lose what little sanity I have. So buck it up, grow a new pair and take charge. No Claire. Fuck Lydia’s brains out after you kill Samuel and Angela. You’ve got the Sullivan Bros Buffet to sustain you. Don’t let me down again, Sylar. You won’t like me when I’m disappointed.”

He’s devouring every word. I can tell he wants to do it. I can only hope, as I shift back to my own dimension that he can pull it off. If not, I’ll have to go through another wall, and gank the writers myself. It’s not as if I can’t shape shift to look like Kring.