| Unashamed Crackfic: "Road Trip!" |
[May. 23rd, 2007|08:55 am] |
I wrote this when sleep-deprived. Please don't kill me.
Title: Road Trip!
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Heroes. ‘Taint mine.
Characters: Sylar, Mohinder.
Table/Prompt: Table 4, Prompt 11 (Courage).
Word Count: 457
Spoilers: ‘Run’. …Coincidentally enough.
Summary: It’s a long drive to the Bozone, and so before visiting Dale the duo try to check up on another person on the List. It… doesn’t go well.
Author's Notes: This was inspired by the prompt word, but in the end it’s actually about them running away from things. Um… I call irony?
“This might be a bad time to ask,” said Sylar, clinging to the tree branch with all his might, ”but did the farmer here actually say you could visit him?”
Mohinder scrambled higher. The man’s curly hair was full of oak leaves, his scarf was impaled on a twig, and he had the decency at least to look embarrassed.
“Not… in so many words, no.”
Groaning inwardly, Sylar pressed: “How many words did he say it in, Mohinder?”
“Well… none, to be honest. There was a rather welcoming dial tone when he hung up on me, though, so I decided to hope for the best.”
Sylar closed his eyes and breathed deeply until the urge to bang his head against something had passed.
“Is anyone we’re visiting actually expecting us? Or can we look forward to this—this warm welcome everywhere we go?”
At the roots of the tree, a huge black mastiff prowled and barked.
The worst part was, the man had been just inside, just behind his twitching lace curtain and not making a sound. Sylar had felt the slight inconsistencies underneath his skin, the maddeningly irregular ticking that meant Mohinder had been right once again. And, once again, there was the heated frustration of not knowing and not having. He’d lost count of the homesteads they’d been chased from, and Zane Taylor, the stuttering idiot, couldn’t fight back. They’d be long gone by nightfall, too, so he couldn’t even sneak back in and take his due under cover of darkness.
Mohinder’s ridiculous plum-coloured scarf was trailing down and providing a tempting target for the dog to snap at.
Using his highly-developed strategic brain, Sylar quickly devised a way out of this mess. He tugged off his boot and dangled it by the laces, so the dog could get a good sniff—and then he threw it, as hard and far as he could, adding a little telekinetic boost as he did, small enough not to arise suspicion. (Though, it had to be said, Mohinder’s suspicion seemed to live under high gravity.)
As the mastiff bounded happily off after its new toy, Sylar slithered down out of the oak, brushing dirt and moss off his t-shirt. Mohinder landed next to him with a thump.
“Good idea. Thanks. Er. Sorry about your shoe.”
“I’ll buy a new pair,” Sylar shrugged. Zane’s shoes had been too small for him anyway. Maybe he could get a pair of converses now—he’d always liked the look of those. Sylar in converses. Red ones. Hmm.
He noticed after a moment that Mohinder’s dark eyes were widening, revealing a startling amount of white. He looked around.
The mastiff was back, all foaming mouth and bunching muscles.
“RUN!” suggested Mohinder.
They ran. |
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