Entry tags:

fanfiction, fics, heroes

Fic: Brave Little Girl
Title: Brave Little Girl
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Molly, Sylar
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, some violent imagery
Word Count: 1,195
Summary: Molly Parkman never cried.
Notes: Ficlet for razycrandomgirl.

Molly Parkman never cried.

Even as a child, when her ordinary life became a string of horrific nightmares just after her tenth birthday, she hadn’t cried.

When she’d cowered in terror, hiding, listening as a mild watchmaker turned madman brutally murdered her parents in the next room, she hadn’t cried. Not more than a few tears, anyway. She’d been too afraid to even breathe, let alone risk making a sound. Can’t let the Bogeyman find me…

When he’d come for her anyway several days later, all shadowy darkness and cold silence and rough hands, she hadn’t cried. She’d screamed and screamed, but no tears had fallen.

When her body started to fail her a few months later, and she was poked and prodded and bled and tested so often that it became as common as breathing, she hadn’t cried. When the doctors had knelt down to her eye level and told her they would do everything they could to make her all better, their plastered-on smiles failing to hide the worry in their eyes, she hadn’t cried.

And even when another bad man had invaded her dreams and imprisoned her in her own mind, she hadn’t cried.

So when she’d suddenly burst into tears just after the conclusion of her college graduation ceremony, diploma clutched tightly in one hand, Matt and Daphne were understandably surprised. She had wiped away the streams with a hasty brush of one hand, diffusing her adoptive parents’ concern with a wobbly smile and telling them she was just happy, proud of herself for having earned her degree.

Sitting on her bed now with her legs curled under her, she gazed at the diploma hanging on the wall, the sunlight streaming through the window to play on the cherry mahogany frame. She knew without looking what the fancy script read.

The State University of New York hereby confers upon Molly Parkman the degree of Bachelor of Science in Criminal Justice…

Criminal justice. Everyone had nodded and made noises of approval upon learning of her desired career path. “Taking after her dad,” they all said with knowing smiles, speaking, of course, about Matt.

She loved Matt and Daphne. They’d finally, officially become her legal guardians shortly after their marriage, giving her their surname, supporting and raising and loving her as though she were their own. And she was grateful, would always be grateful—she knew all too well that they’d saved her from the trauma of being shuffled from one foster home to another.

But when she had lost control of her emotions on that bright May afternoon, clad in cap and gown, the tears hadn’t come from relief, pride or joy. They had come because when she looked into the stands for the beaming faces of her parents, she suddenly realized she was searching for James and Melissa Walker, not Matt and Daphne Parkman.

Lips set in a thin line, she let her gaze drop from the diploma and shifted her position on the bed, pulling her knees tightly up to her chest and cradling them in the crook of her arm. She flipped her cell phone open with one hand, steady fingers punching in the number she’d had to go behind Matt’s back to find.

The phone rang twice before she heard an answer, a masculine voice, deep and accented.

“Hello?”

She let out a long breath.

“Hi,” she said. “My name is Molly Walker. I’ve got a problem, and I need your help to take care of it.”

* * *

The wind whipped her hair around her face, the tangled auburn strands coloring her vision red, and she raked them back with one hand. Her eyes traveled to the horizon, somewhere beyond the congested clot of skyscrapers in the distance, where darkly billowing clouds promised a storm’s soon arrival.

One raindrop splattered on her arm, and she brushed it away as she tilted her head back briefly, blinking into the sky. Her spine straightened, shoulders stiffening as she stepped forward, goosebumps rippling along her skin, her pace matching the rapid beating of her heart.

She took the steps two at a time and stopped in front of the apartment doorway, pausing only for a second before testing the knob. It was unlocked, and she allowed herself a quick, joyless grin before throwing the door open wide.

Sylar was sitting at the kitchen table, as she’d known he would be, and his head jerked around to face her as she stepped inside. He looked almost exactly the same as she remembered, with the stubble and black clothes, and dark eyes under startlingly thick brows. Though it had been twelve years since she’d last seen him—and she knew he had to be pushing forty—he appeared as though he hadn’t aged a day.

“Found you,” she said, and raised her pistol, training it right between his eyes.

He only stared at her, head tilted, eyes devoid of recognition. “Do I know you?” he finally asked, his gaze sweeping her body up and down as though in search of clues.

“No,” she replied, her voice even and monotone. “But you might remember my parents. You cut open my father’s head and ripped out his brain, then froze his body solid. You pinned my mother to the stairwell with every piece of cutlery we owned.”

A long moment passed, the silence inside broken only by the angry wind howling past the still-open door. Then the chair’s wooden legs scraped against the floor as Sylar rose slowly, his lips stretching in an almost faraway smile as he took a step towards her.

“I remember,” he murmured, taking another step forward. “Molly. Brave little girl.” His grin widened, eyes glittering and teeth flashing in the darkness of the apartment. “So you’ve come to take your vengeance, then?” He cocked one eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. “Shouldn’t you be delivering some impassioned speech about justice and good triumphing over evil?”

“I don’t do theatrics,” she said, biting off each word. “Unlike you.”

He took another step closer.

“Also unlike me,” he replied, “you apparently don’t do any research on your targets. Don’t you know I have the ability to heal, now? A bullet’s no worse than a beesting to me.”

For the first time, Molly smiled.

“Actually,” she said, “you’re wrong.”

She pulled the trigger three times in quick succession, watching intently as Sylar’s expression morphed from smugness to shock when the slugs impacted his chest.

He swayed unsteadily on his feet, both hands moving to his torso in seeming slow motion. His gaze flickered between Molly and his bloodstained fingers, pain and disbelief mingling on his face before his legs gave way and he collapsed heavily.

The floorboards creaked behind Molly, and she glanced over her shoulder to meet the Haitian’s stoic gaze. She gave a tiny nod before turning back to Sylar, striding across the room to kneel by his side.

He met her gaze with difficulty, eyes already clouding over, and she could hear the blood bubbling up in his throat as he tried to speak.

“Very clever,” he whispered, barely audible.

Molly smiled grimly and pressed the gun’s barrel to his forehead.

“Good night, Bogeyman.”