[Sylar, heroslayer, used with love and permission. Serge, whata_shock, is mine to abuse. Taking place in their Kastor and Pollux verse. Follows THIS and THIS]

West leaned against the railing of deck twelve overlooking the outside pool. He couldn't sleep and Sylar's penchant for not sleeping bothered him. He could only watch the same episodes of the same sitcoms so many times. He knew that by the time he had gotten up there, the line-up of shows would have switched for the next day but he'd eventually see them all again. At least this way, he was getting fresh air.

One deck below, a group of teenagers were partying and making noise. West thought of himself back in Costa Verde. He hadn't exactly been a party animal. But, it would have been interesting. Community college differed from a life on the run in a lot of ways. But, this way there was no doubt whether or not he was special. He was. He was damn special.

"Shut up, Mickey!" one of the girls said, splashing her friend. "He's not...dead."

Now, West's ears were perked up.

"I'm not saying he is," the other boy said, holding his hands up in front of him defensively. "I'm just saying it's been two days. Boy probably has shacked up with some hot honey in her cabin."

"Because that happenings," another boy said.

"Serge, have you seen him?" the girl, Arielle asked in his direction. Serge was blonde and took a little too long before answering. West straightened up.

"I haven't. Not since you guys." Serge got quiet again, dropping himself down so that his nose was just above the water.

Mickey and a few girls soon took their leave.

"Why are you so worried about him," Serge asked. "I'm your boyfriend."

"You say this like I don't know. And, he's a friend. Hell, he's my ex," she said, her voice raised slightly.

"There-in lies the problem, Ari!" he yelled, a little too harshly for West's tastes. He soon lowered his voice again, moving closer, placating his girlfriend. West watched Arielle and Serge for a second before they began to go at it in the hot tub. He had not signed on for this. As he moved to go, they stopped, Arielle disappearing to go to the bathroom. West stood, poised, ready to do something as he watched the blonde who was not quiet.

As Serge's hand came up, West's eyes went wide. The water that should have fallen through his fingers was balanced in his palm, swirling around itself in the shape of a small sphere. Arielle returned as Serge dropped his hand under the surface.

West wasted no time in returning inside. Stopping at the bank of elevators to his right, West grabbed the public phone and dialed his room number. A few too many rings passed before Sylar answered.

"It's this kid on the eleventh deck. Serge something. He's with a girl in the hot tub, I have to get back out there." He tried putting the phone back in its cradle but it fell, dangling under. West didn't have time to replace it as he ran back outside carefully. The wind had picked up and West found that he couldn't hear what was going on below but Serge and Arielle were having an argument.

Taking the stairs three steps at a time, West hurried before seeing Arielle submerge herself on her own accord. "No!" he screamed, realizing Arielle had started to struggle. He didn't see Serge which worried him. Heading over to the hot tub, he tried to reach in and pull her out. His head submerged as he grabbed her hand and managed to pull her out, setting her down next to the tub.

He felt the pain in his stomach first as the elbow impacted and he went sailing backwards into the hot tub. Attempting to gain his footing, West tried to emerge but his head was being held down by a force he couldn't control. He wondered if Arielle was unconscious or if she had gotten away. His arms and legs flailed as he attempted to break the surface.

The last thing he remembered was Serge's rippling reflection looming over him.

[Sylar, heroslayer, used with permission and love. Follows their Kastor and Pollux storyline]

"What we should be doing is leaving," West said from the bathroom. He didn't understand why they were participating in formal night. A cabin steward was dead. The crew was very quiet about it, preferring not to dock at the latest island because of "tender malfunctioning." Of course, Sylar and West knew why the ship hadn't docked. "You should let me fly you out of here. You're a fugitive. You've killed. You technically killed me," he mused, setting his toothbrush down. "Well, or kidnapped. Either way, I'm not in my house and you left quite the mess."

Sticking his head out, he found Sylar sitting on their bed. That he had to get used to. Their bed. It wasn't like they were together. He didn't think they were. But they shared a bed. It gave them a lot more room in an already small cabin.

"The point is, we should be leaving...not...attempting to tie a bow tie." Fed up with it, West tossed his onto the bed and rubbed his eyes.

"Someone was killed."

"I'm aware," West replied, sighing.

"If I could just get close enough to the body..."

"Well, you can't," West said, sitting on the edge next to Sylar. His nice socks were sitting on the ground stuffed in his black shoes. Grabbing one, he stretched it out. "It's blocked off. Taped, actually. And the only people who can go back there are-"

"Cabin stewards." Sylar finished West's sentence.

"Right. And neither of us is one of those." West pulled on his right sock now before looking in the mirror and brushing his hair out of his eyes. "I need a haircut..."

"No," Sylar replied.

"Well, yes. But, thanks for your vote," he replied, his second sock now in his hand.

"Cut your hair if you want. I didn't mean, 'No,' to that." West tilted his head, looking at Sylar again. "We aren't room attendants."

"I said that, yes. It's the truth."

"But they don't know that," Sylar said, smirking.


Fifteen minutes later, a protesting West stood in their cabin, the red cabin attendant uniform chafing in the worst places. "It itches!" he said, adjusting the area in the crotch. "And you clearly think I'm shorter than I actually am."

Sylar ignored him. For whatever reason, Sylar hadn't changed out of his formal wear.

"I didn't check the size." He hadn't had the time. He had just grabbed one. "Take me back there."

"Back...where?" West asked, facing his cabin mate.


It was easy to get Sylar back behind the taped off area. West's "coworkers" assumed he was taking the passenger in back for a tryst that breached his contract. Everyone did it. West was just going with the trend.

"I do not look...ethnic," he whispered as he limbo'd under the tape. Sylar preferred to bend his head down.

West gasped. The body of the unlucky attendant was still there, albeit with a nice yellow raincoat as a blanket. Taking a breath, West shook his head, his mind focusing again. He waited for Sylar to do his thing.

Crouching down next to the body, Sylar peeled down the top of the raincoat and put his hand on the man's head.

West crossed his arms and remembered the reason he had brought Sylar back here, or the reason he had exuded. He grunted once before reacting pleasantly to nothing in particular. He felt silly. Tilting his head, West furrowed his brow before Sylar looked up at him, apparently back down to Earth now.

"He drown," Sylar told West.

"He...drown...ed?" he asked, an eyebrow raising.

"I was using broken English," Sylar replied.

"I thought I was the ethnic one," West said, crossing his arms. Sylar stood and walked back to West.

"I don't know who drowned this man."

"I'm going to say water," West replied with a small smile.

"On the ship?" Of course, Sylar had a point.

"So, what? We're back to square one?" West asked, scratching at his crotch. He was going to kill Sylar for deciding on his getup.

"Essentially," Sylar said. West let out a breath and nodded. Someone was on board drowning cabin stewards. And they were back to square one.

[It's like something out of an Agatha Christie novel. What the hell. This was about lying low. Who is angry on a cruise ship? It's a cruise ship. Everybody is relaxed and vacationing - not killing one another. Did these people learn nothing from pirates? Damn.]

[Sylar, heroslayer, used with permission and love. Rebel not binding on any Rebel muse. Part of their "Kastor and Pollux" verse.]

"Thanks," he said, taking the room key and handing one to Sylar. Shrugging, he took his receipt and smashed it into his back pocket before stepping onto the escalator. He didn't look back to see if Sylar was following. The escalator led to a hallway and a shorter line then the one they had been standing in previously. West had encouraged Sylar not to kill the crying toddler out of irritation.

"Look into the camera."

He did as he was told as an undetermined note of music sounded and his picture was added to their system. This time he did look back. Sylar was indeed right behind him, not managing a smile when his picture was taken.

This hallway emptied out onto the gangplank that led to the fourth level of the ship. The cool air hit West's skin as he stepped onto the Explorer proper. He couldn't help but take a moment to realize where he was. He was on a cruise ship - his first in his lifetime.

Checking his room key again, West walked in the direction of the closest bank of elevators. One opened as a cheery computerized voice announced they were on level four. West stepped inside waiting for Sylar. The numbers rose faster then West had anticipated. Stepping off, his sandal caught the bottom and he stumbled forward.

"Careful," he heard from behind him. There was probably a smirk that had accompanied it but West didn't look back.

Sylar arrived first, West having been distracted by the glass case of weapons in the hallway. By the time West had pushed his room key in, Sylar was sitting on the chair-like couch area looking out onto the promenade and the inner atrium. West wondered if Sylar was plotting individual deaths or if he was simply checking their surroundings in general.

"So, that's the sixth floor. There's a pizza place and shops that are only open when the ship isn't in port," West said, kneeling behind Sylar. The serial killer glanced back at him as if to say, 'I know," before taking a seat on the bed. "Two weeks," West added, closing the drapes. Turning around, he sat down, sighing. "And then we stay out of the country."

They had to be careful. Whoever this Rebel guy was, he had helped them escape their Texas hotel in one piece. West had been half-asleep at the time but no less grateful. Secretly, he had been waiting for another transition. He couldn't help but wonder if Rebel had gotten the memo about him working for evil.

Or, at least the unhinged.

From now now, careful was the name of the game. They had to blend in. And West had to get Sylar another pair of swim trunks. One was not going to be enough.

[Sylar is heroslayer and used with their permission as a part of an ongoing storyline. He is also used with love.]

"Could you repeat that?" West's therapist asked, jotting something down on his pad. West Rosen rubbing his thumb against his thigh, clenching slightly before taking a breath. It was weird to him, being this open but he figured he was already crazy - why not continue seeking help.

"I said, 'My - friend,'" he attempted, the word hardly being formed, much less actually being said. "'Sylar.'" He paused, shaking his head. That was new and inaccurate but for the present moment, it helped West sort out his feelings. "We're sort of, on the run. Like I said."

"Do you mean that you feel like you're on the run?" His therapist stopped writing, now busy with studying West's expression or his body language - possibly even his tone of voice.

"Sure," he answered, the answer sufficient enough. "We feel like we're on the run. You see, our friends wouldn't exactly approve of us." Smirking, West rolled his eyes. "Spending time together."

"OK," she replied, nodding slowly. "Go on."

"And, well, mentally going on the run kind of required fake names and fake lives and I got -- I started getting, it got --" he tried, before being interrupted.

"Confusing."

"Yes," West said, nodding.

"Keeping track of both the you who you are and the you on the run."

"Yes." West smiled again, licking his lips and glancing up at the clock. "Exactly. I kind of used the fake names. Out loud. Often. And there were times that I forgot they were fake." Pursing her lips, the woman with the PHD adjusted her glasses. "Look, I don't know why I'm telling you this. I'm not a fan of therapists or any robots in general and I come from the belief that you guys churn them out."

"Churn what out?" she asked, crossing her legs.

"Robots. See, I have this theory." The phrase, 'Don't we all,' crossed West's mind as he met her eyes but continued on. "You're either a robot or you're an alien."

"Does this confuse you?"

"No. This is simple. Cut and dry. The robots: they're generic and they kow-tow at the first sign of strain or pressure. The aliens...the aliens are special. They're above the robots because they recognize conformity and they themselves don't fit in. That isn't confusing." He glanced down at his hands before standing up. "Look, I know why I came in today but I just remembered what I'm all about so I don't actually need this session. Thanks a lot, Dr.-"

She stood up holding her pad at her side. "You don't have to run. You do that, don't you?" she asked, stopping West before he made it to the door. "You run."

"I didn't always," he replied, closing the door behind himself.

Matt's fingers barely touched each key as he attempted to assemble a worthy, "I'm not dead" E-mail that was long overdue. Of course, Brian would've frowned on this and it wasn't as if Matt was actually going to click send. This would make five unsent but saved E-mails. Sighing, Matt looked up from his computer as Brian stepped out of the bathroom in his towel, dripping wet. One good thing about living with a sociopathic serial killer: Brian showered. That much was something to look forward to.

"Hey," Matt said, eyes fixated on Brian's body.

"Hey," he responded, his cool stare piercing into Brian's mind no doubt reading it. "Five E-mails," he asked, tilting his head.

"Unsent E-mails," Matt made sure to point out. "And now deleted..." he added, as he moved his cursor over the delete button. "Woah."

"What?" Brian asked, using the towel to actually dry himself off not one for modesty. Matt was getting used to that fact and was hoping they'd get to the biting they had talked about earlier.

"I just got an instant message," he replied, looking up at Brian.

"Who have you been talking to?" Brian asked, moving to the other side of the bed, towel in his hand. Really, it was difficult to concentrate with everything right there but Matt managed.

"No one." And he hadn't. "Do you know a...Rebel?" he asked, looking up at Brian. His friend shook his head, sitting next to him and taking the laptop from him, setting it on his lap. "Hey!" he exclaimed, receiving a glare in return. "Just -- it's an electronic..." Rolling his eyes, Brian lifted the laptop up and set the towel on his knees. Finally, they both read the instant message.

NEED HELP? CONTACT CLAIRE
REBEL

Exchanging a glance, Matt tilted his own head, his brow furrowed. "What?" he asked.

"What is this?" Brian asked, gaze now on Matt.

"I don't know! I got it the same time you did. I don't even know a rebel." Well, he knew multiple rebels but not one calling themselves, Rebel. "Claire?" he asked nobody in particular. "You think-"

"Yes," Brian responded.

[Ryan: Are you pretending to go to sleep thinking I'll tell you 'I love you' while you're unconscious?
Taylor: ... Maybe.

-The OC]

"Pathetic," Brian said, shaking his head. His foot brushed against Matt's and he pulled it back. The only reason he'd kept the beds together had been the space around the bed. The room looked and felt bigger. Yeah, that was the reason. Not that he like any normal individual was feeling a little frisky - not that he could ever utter the word, frisky.

"What?" Matt asked, turning his head, his eyes still glued to the screen.

"She's - sleeping to get the guy she loves to say, 'I love you'," Brian said, holding his hand up and indicating the television.

"Yeah," Matt replied. "I'm watching too."

"It's pathetic."

"Brian!"

"Matt!"

"What is so pathetic?" Matt asked, ignoring their borderline Oscar/Felix moment for the time being. It was no time to bring in Neil Simon. "Ryan just has trouble saying what he feels and it meaning something. He loves her. The audience knows that."

"I don't know that," Brian replied.

"You should pay attention," Matt shrugged, turning his attention back to The O.C.

"I have been." Now Brian was glaring, possibly picking a fight just to pick a fight. "I asked you to change the channel."

"And I wanted to watch the episode because I've never seen it," Matt interrupted.

"I'll take the remote away from you," Brian said, not waiting for an answer as the remote flung out of Matt's hand, hitting the ground. Matt grumbled and slid to the edge of his side of the bed before feeling Brian's piercing glare behind him. Not facing Brian didn't mean Matt couldn't feel the stare. "Don't move," Brian added.

"I need to get the remote," Matt replied, not moving.

"No, you don't." Brian replied, moving closer. Matt didn't need to - and he didn't, turning around. Taylor was now yapping to Summer about Ryan or something and Brian's eyes shot towards the television, the mute logo now apparent. "Better," he said, a smirk on his face.

"Look, I know I don't have a knack for the name picking," West exclaimed. He stretched his legs out on the bed and pulled the pad onto his lap. Sylar sat in the chair across from him, having already picked his alias. When West had inquired into the why of Sylar's new name the glare the young man was given was enough to shut West up. "I picked Nate. It wasn't the smoothest name in history."

Sylar gave him a "you don't have to tell me" look and shook his head. West's head dropped down again as he scanned the pad in his lap, tapping his pen against it, which happened to irk Sylar.

"So, my choices are - Matt Dallas, Hank Thomas, and Traci Ackman." Looking up, he met Sylar's tilted head, his eyes on the boy. Traci wasn't exactly subtle. West knew this. "Traci's a guy's name!" he said, furrowing his brow. "Fine," he added, crossing out the third name. "But, that was quite the conversation starter!"

"We don't want to start conversations, Matt," Sylar said, trying it out. "This isn't a game. This isn't some fun action adventure you're getting into. If you think that's what this is you should fly out of here -" A moment passed before Sylar couldn't help but add, "Of course, I'd kill you before that happened." He couldn't exactly go after Claire, now, could he? Not that Claire was his main concern now. Staying alive and undrugged was pretty much Sylar's priority at this moment.

"I don't think this is a game," West said, getting up from the bed. "I don't." Sighing, he paced away and then back, thinking which name better suited him.

"Hank," Sylar said, his voice coarse and deliberate.

"Matt," West chirped, shrugging. "Matt all the way."

"Fine," Sylar replied, rolling his eyes and standing up from the chair. "I'm Brian Russo and you're Matt..."

"Dallas," West finished.

"Like the actor?" Sylar asked, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes.

"...What?" West asked, taking a few steps towards the taller man.

"The actor. Matt Dallas. He's an actor."

"What has he been in?" West asked, crossing his arms, tilting his head now. More and more they bickered like an old couple. West was amused by it but assumed Sylar was just bothered by it.

"I don't know. I just know he's an actor."

"Well, he's obviously not well known," West replied, bringing his hands up. "I'm Matt Dallas and that's that." Shrugging, he sat back down on the bed, "Brian" left standing and looking at "Matt" an amused, studied look on his face. West glanced over at his laptop which lay closed at the edge of the bed and then back to the pad. Sylar knew this was bothering the boy. Even after the short month they had spent in the same car, Sylar was starting to understand the boy and predict his actions. In people besides him, it came down to predictability. Rolling his eyes, West glanced back at the laptop before pulling it towards him and opening it up. Sylar disappeared into the bathroom. As he turned the faucet on he heard West's voice.

"Kyle XY," Matt said from the other room causing Brian to smirk. Predictable.

- Arguments about the Cowboys because the Cowboys own all
- Disagreeing with Brian
- Making fun of Brian's last name
- Saying Brian has some Russkie business to take care of
- Rest stops in general
- Truck stops
- Paying the check - my doe eyes get me by every time
- Getting jumped in general by fans of another football team or roadside -- scragglers...It happened once but now we're careful and we don't carry a lot of money with us

[I'm either quick on my feet or a total moron. Maybe after a good night's sleep I'll be able to tell the difference. Or, I'll see how much of a moron I am. Oh well, better than being a robot, right?

I'm a pistol-whipping alien named Nate.

Yeah, total moron.]

"Why...are you watching that," Sylar asks, his gaze traveling away from the television screen to West, an annoyed expression etched on his face.

"I like it," West replies. He's sitting cross-legged on the bed next to Sylar. One bed. There's one bed and West remembers how the two bed situation wasn't a priority when they checked into the motel. West and Sylar are Nate and Jones - names West came up with that came from nowhere and make no sense. But Sylar isn't captured and he needs to gain back his strength and West? West wants to watch VH1.

"Turn it off," Sylar says, grabbing the remote from him.

Automatically, West turns to face Sylar, attempting to grab it back. "You got captured. We were followed and you got captured and I saved you and I ... saved you and I got attacked and drove a broken car and I set fire to an office building and I'm pretty sure I missed being taised by...this much," he says, holding his thumb and his forefinger a few centimeters away from each other. "So, I'd appreciate it if you laid there, recovered and let me watch For the Love of Ray J so I don't think about pistol-whipping some guy and almost losing track of you."

The final bit is said almost under his breath as he snatches the remote back and leans forward a bit, eyes glued to the screen and the local commercial advertising factory direct pricing from Value City Furniture.

[Sylar is heroslayer and used with permission. Follows THIS.]

In and out. In and out. West had to tell himself to breathe as his foot pulled back a bit on the peddle. Don't Stop Believin' by Journey began as he followed the unmarked white van down the exit. The irony of the day was really starting to grate at his nerves but West couldn't bring himself to turn it off. His breathing settled in with the rhythm of the music as he kept far enough back to not be noticed.

For a group of people who had been less than stealthy at following the two of them, they were even worse at trying to elude someone else following them. Then again, they figured West had flown the coop entirely.

He still didn't know why he hadn't.

A singer in a smokey room
A smell of wine and cheap perfume

The van made a sharp right turn, snapping West back to attention as he did the same, albeit a few minutes later. Coming to a stop, West watched as the van pulled up to what looked like a deserted office building of some sort. Pulling off to the side, West backed into a nearby alleyway, breathing heavily, trying to formulate a plan. He couldn't very well save Sylar from the car, now could he?

But, apparently, he was saving Sylar. That alone, was good to know. Always one for music, West grabbed his iPod and pulled out the iTrip, sticking the buds in his ears, Journey still playing. Pocketing his iPod, West climbed out of the wrecked car and flew up above onto the building he had parked near, watching as they unloaded a drugged and hooded Sylar into this building.

There was no way it was actually full of ... whoever the hell they were. This was a holding tank. They were waiting for the big boss to get there.

Or they were killing him. And it was Sylar, so, no.

Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard
Their shadows searching in the night
Streetlights people, living just to find emotion
Hiding, somewhere in the night

Formulating a half-assed plan of simply sneaking in and saving whatever the hell Sylar was to him, West took a few more breaths in before taking off again. His best bet was flying into a second story window and navigating from there. What he hadn't been counting on was that what he thought was an open window, was really just a window that had been impeccably windexed.

As he crashed through, West realized just what day of the week it was. This wasn't deserted or abandoned. It was a Saturday. Of course nobody was in this office. The glass hurt less than he had though it would as he came to his feet, realizing a disturbance like breaking glass would alert at least, someone. Or, everyone.

Discreet thy name was not West.

Shaking his head, West immediately left the office he was in spotting a room full of cubicles and a person in uniform as he ducked down.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit," he heard himself mutter as he scurried across, staying close to the ground. Peering around the corner, he realized only one person was sent to investigate the disturbance and continued down the next corridor, crouching down so that he was behind the entire row of cubicles before spotting two elevators in front of him and a door to the stairwell.

Looking back, he saw that whoever had come after him's back was turned, giving him time to slowly make his way into the stairwell.

In and out. In and out, he had to remind himself.

Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard
Their shadows searching in the night
Streetlights people, living just to find emotion
Hiding, somewhere in the night

Adjusting the buds in his ears, he crept down to the first floor, peering into the window. Crouching down, he narrowly missed another "agent" as he deemed them, checking it, before peeking up again. In the span of the van drive, they had drugged Sylar and stuck an orange suit on him, complete with handcuffs. Of course, handcuffs.

Rolling his eyes, he sighed, before heading back upstairs. He needed to do something, create a disturbance...something. Heading back upstairs, West ducked into the nearest office, closing the door. Making his way over to the desk, West rifled through the drawers, and papers ontop in order to find -- something. Some distraction, a weapon, something.

Jackpot.

In the bottom drawer sat a lighter and a pack of neglected cigarettes. Somebody was a secret smoker...Tilting his head, West had a judgmental moment before pulling out the lighter and flicking it open, the flame dancing before his eyes. Looking up, he spotted a sprinkler jet. Nudging the wastebasket closer to him, West brushed the papers on this person's desk into it. Taking another breath, West flicked the lighter open once again, dropping it down.

Papers and discarded objects went up in flame as West slipped out of the office and back into the stairwell. Instead of heading downstairs, he headed up one, watching several men exit onto the second floor.


Don't stop believin'
Hold on to the feelin'
Streetlights people

He had to move quickly.

Kicking open the door, he spotted one man, guarding Sylar no doubt. West saw the gun before he fired and hit the deck, the tasing-end embedding itself into the wall. Looking up, he smiled, climbed to his feet, and rushed forward, knocking into him, the gun dropping out of the agent's hands. Grabbing it, he knocked the guy on the head, surprised when he fell limp under him.

So...he had done good.

Of course, he wasn't finished. Standing, he crossed to Sylar, making sure to take off the hood before he pulled out the tubes shoved in his nose. He heard a few breaths escape as he lightly tapped Sylar on the cheek.

"Come on, come on, come on," he repeated, attempting now to undo the handcuffs. "Come to enough to go all badass on them," he said quietly, now at Sylar's feet. When the serial killer's eyes fluttered open, groggy as they were, West actually smiled - genuinely up at him. "Almost lost you there," he said, breathing now second nature.

Word Count l 966 [without lyrics]

[Sylar is heroslayer and used with permission and a pinch of love.]

[Don't Hassle the Hoff]

"Do you see that car?"

It wasn't that West was against Claire in any way. He didn't actually have anything concrete against her besides shoving his file in his face and sending him on his way. To West, it wasn't that that was enough. He didn't hate Claire Bennet. He didn't loathe her. He didn't want to watch her scream in agony. For all he cared, the bitch could go on living and it wouldn't have mattered to him.

"That car's been following us."

These weren't second thoughts. They were musings. With nothing to do in the car besides stare and listen to music West found himself having these thoughts and these musings quite often. The only thing that curbed them were Sylar's eyes. He would look over, this suspicious gaze etched in his face but he wouldn't say anything - he'd just, continue to drive.

One tryst did not a relationship make. West did not want a relationship. Hell no. He was not ready for all the attachments a relationship with a serial killer entailed. Maybe attachments wasn't the right word.

The only thing that roused West from his thoughts was David Hasselhoff's voice on the radio telling him to save the porpoises or the wales or some sort of aquatic animal. The car stopped and West's attention moved from the dashboard to Sylar whose focus was behind them.

"Buckle up."

He didn't ask, nor did he yell, he simply stated this before switching the car into reverse and stepping on the gas. West did as he was told as fast as he could and as he heard the seatbelt engage, he felt the impact of the van Sylar had plowed into. The young man was whipped forward, his head hitting the dashboard. Before West could register anything else, he felt himself being pulled out of the passenger side window, the broken shards of glass cutting at his skin. As his feet hit the ground, instincts kicked in as he brought them up against the car and pushed back, knocking both him and his assailant to the ground.

Rolling over, West caught a glimpse of Sylar's feet before he saw knees, waist and then Sylar's upper body hit the ground.

West was picked up again, his feet immediately leaving the ground, his one attacker falling back down. A part of the taser hit his ankle, but West flew and shook out of it, disoriented as first before making his escape.

Instead of flying away, West perched ontop of the nearby gas station, catching sight of the van that Sylar had slammed into, on it's side and the other men, drugging and capturing Sylar. Someone was getting a pat on the back. That was for sure.

Scanning the scene, he saw two men enter another van while three flanked Sylar as he himself was being put into the nondescript white van. Waiting until they had gone, West flew down to the ground, back to the car Sylar had stolen. The radio was still going as West climbed into the driver's seat and strapped himself in.

"Don't let those porpoises be pwned, people," he heard the Hoff say as he turned the key in the ignition. The sheer absurdity of not only that quote but of the entire road trip with Sylar hit him and he laughed as he pulled away and back onto the interstate, making sure to keep the nondescript white car in his sights at all times.

- Sidekick (phone)
- Laptop
- My one bag of clothes
- The iPod touch
- My headphones and not the crap earbuds they provide
- My "wings"...take that how you will

1) Go here to generate 10 random numbers between 1 and 100. DO THIS FIRST.

2) Then I will answer the corresponding questions from here

Sylar is my lovely paramour Get your sweetheart's pet name @ Quiz Me

[commence laughter]