Sylar - Gabriel Gray (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
watchmakersylar) wrote2010-01-13 08:34 am
watchmakersylar) wrote2010-01-13 08:34 am
Entry tags:
The Intervention - Sylar and TV Sylar Chat
Character: Sylar and TV Sylar
Fandom: Heroes
Word count: 1274
Rating: PG for swearing
Notes: My muse Sylar goes to chat with TV Sylar
Prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
scifi_muses Ms. Bitters: Children, your performance was miserable. Your parents will all receive phone calls instructing them to love you less now.
“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.
Fandom: Heroes
Word count: 1274
Rating: PG for swearing
Notes: My muse Sylar goes to chat with TV Sylar
Prompt:
scifi_muses Ms. Bitters: Children, your performance was miserable. Your parents will all receive phone calls instructing them to love you less now.“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.