Sounds

With years of silence, death, and decay surrounding him, Sylar sometimes wondered if he had become deaf. He often thought of the riddle: “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” Sometimes he shouted, just to hear his own voice, or tossed a rock down a cliff to listen to its echo.

When he went to the coast he could hear the sea, but he had never really liked it there. The violent shift of the San Andreas Fault had washed away most of what used to be California, and there wasn’t much to see. Rather, he spent his days floating high in the air, gazing upon the destruction he’d helped cause to this world. It didn’t fill him with pride, but it was sort of amusing.

It was hard to admit he was lonely. The US Army watched their side of the Ravine like jealous dogs, and while Sylar could get past them, he couldn’t be bothered.

So he dwelled in his silent world, starving until his regenerating body forgot what being hungry was like.

He often thought of Peter. How the other had sunk so low, he had no idea. One day he would break free because no man could withstand slavery like that if they had the power to break it.

But years passed, and Sylar’s annoyance towards Peter grew. The longer he spent silent hours sitting on the edge of the Ravine, looking into its dark, burned depth, the more he compared his life with Peter’s.

Peter lived in a world of sounds: the constant noise of his thoughts as he tried to find a way to please everyone, and the conscience that overruled his actions and made him weak.

Sylar had a few voices of his own, mainly the one nagging at him to get more power. Peter had had it for a while too, but he had handled the Hunger so poorly that Sylar was glad Arthur had taken it away from his son before he could do any real damage with it.

Nevertheless Peter had power, just like him. The difference was that the other man had become a puppet to his guilt, and in his attempt to save what was left of the world he had forgotten how to live.

Sylar was getting tired of waiting for him to come to his senses.

He half expected the sound of the metal spike sliding out of Peter’s head to be like the one he made when he cut someone’s head open. But it was softer, almost nonexistent and unimportant, and he strained to hear it. After all, this was an excellent, meaningful moment.

Sylar could hear him come back to life; his heart starting to beat, blood rushing through his veins, brain damage healing, and the scalp mending itself. Then came thoughts, and he knew Peter would soon be awake.