microwavelength: (curious)
Luke hadn't fought his mother on the relocation. He lied about what happened with Sylar, he told her he had been used and left, nearly murdered but for his ability. It saved him, he lied. All he wanted was to be normal, he lied.

He wasn't sure if she bought it but she didn't fight him either and so he found himself starting in a new school across the country from New Jersey.

It didn't matter. These were all people lesser than he was. He just needed to be here for a little while until he could figure out what to do with his life.

That didn't mean he wasn't careless about it all. He ate kernels of corn that he popped in his bare hand in the quad., in front of everyone.

And they were all scared of him. His dead eyes. He liked that.
microwavelength: (arms crossed)
Luke Campbell did not do friends. He did not do family. He did not do people. He'd learned some very hard lessons when he was seventeen and then nineteen years old that you couldn't trust anyone but yourself. He hated himself too but at least he had a good reason for that. And between bouts of loathing, he also had enough fun to ride him through depressions.

He'd met Axel not too long ago. It had been an accidental run in during a robbery gone south for each of them. Luke shut off the CCTV right before Axel finished with his whole I'm An Awesome And Scary Bomber guy and unfortunately for them both, that made the whole array go off.

Microwave manipulation wasn't perfect. That much was obvious when he found himself in the basement with part of s building covering him. He didn't know why he didn't just boil Axel's blood then and there.

Or why he started following him around. Or why he showed up at his next gig. Luke cleared his throat, slipping his cell phone into his back pocket. Having control of every security camera in the city had its perks and make stalking so much easier. His smile was not kind. "We have to stop meeting like this."
microwavelength: (dnw - fist over mouth)
[Continued from here.]

"Luke, you have to stop getting into fights!" Luke had Sylar on the phone, the device buried under the pillow on his bed. Mary's voice, Mary's yelling more than audible even through the insulation. "I know you don't think it's important now, but you're not going to get into college if you're a problem!"

He didn't tell her that he had no plans on going to college. AS IF! She just wanted him gone. She wanted to know that he would leave her and this house one day in the very near future. And he did plan to...but maybe not the way she wanted. "Ma, just stop, okay? I told you that they were calling you a slut. A whore. Do you think I can stand by and listen to that?"

With Sylar's help, he was getting remarkably good at even sounding upset.

Truthfully, though? He just liked getting hit. Everyone had their issues. Sylar had the whole cutting people's heads open thing. Luke liked a fist in his face. Big deal.

"Well. Next time you're staying the night in juvie, bud. Got it?"
microwavelength: (milkshake)
Great.  Another new person.  It's not that he minds the current influx of people into their not-so-little enclave, it's just that there are more potentials for disaster.  Luke's been keeping to himself as much as possible, trying not to pay attention to the 'reformed' Sylar sleeping in one of the nicer caravan trailers.  The man doesn't recognize him, not even after Luke had a bit of a one-sided screaming match with him a few days after he arrived.  Sylar is nothing more than a cow.  He pouts and apologizes and looks away.  That man that Luke wanted so badly to be like a few very, very long months ago is dead now and replaced with a doppelgänger.

Well that suits him just fine, really.  He doesn't have any competition for biggest badass anymore (and no, he doesn't count Edgar as competition for anything with the way he sucks up to Lydia and Samuel, thank you).

Luke's been at the Carnival for a few months now.  His costume consists of a white and red striped vest, red pants, and a frown when Samuel takes him aside.  As usual for the human microwave, Luke's latched onto the older and supposedly wiser man.  He's started painting his nails like Samuel and he's gotten a piercing too.  Emulating Samuel takes the edge off of being himself -- something he really and truly hates to be.  "What d'ya mean I have to share my trailer?"

"Jus' for a little while.  Jus' until we settle down and can find a more permanent space for him."  Samuel puts a hand to Luke's shoulder.  "An' I trust you."

is one of those catnip words and Luke finds himself nodding.  He looks back up at Samuel, but he doesn't manage a smile.  "Why can't he just stay with Lydia?"

He doesn't get an answer unless a wry smile counts so Luke just nods and grabs a new pouch of popcorn kernels before he heads back through camp towards his trailer.  He sees the lost looking, formerly amazing man in the window as he approaches and sighs, banging open the door.  "That's my fucking bed, blondy.  Off."
microwavelength: (Default)
He hates it.  From the noise to the brightness to the level of prettiness, this school is absolutely the worst he's ever been at.  And he's been at some pretty fucking bad ones.  Mom moves him around a lot.  He gets into trouble and sometimes it's just easier to get a job at another hospital and take her son away before he gets a wrap sheet for the crap he pulls.

Luke doesn't wear school colors.  He's not in any clubs.  He manages not to get slushied or dumpstered.  He is quiet in class and lies to everyone that gets it into their head to so much as smile at him.

Maybe that's how all of this trouble started in the first place.

"I don't need a partner.  I'm not going to do the fucking report anyhow."  Or, maybe it was just that he hated Spanish class with a passion.  And the thought of being paired with Kurt of all people?  Not.  Happening.
microwavelength: (Default)
Life in New York City was unpleasant. It smelled bad, there were too many people and everything had this sort of greasy flavor that got in through the nose and tainted the very air. Luke Campbell loved every moment of it.

It had been almost a year since the world was suppose to have ended for specials when that idiot blonde took a flying leap to her not-quite death in front of a million watching eyes. The videos had gone viral and the , just like that, were covered up and labled an amazing hoax. Luke hadn't seen her since, though sometimes he looked her up on Youtube to get a laugh at how her body twisted when she landed.

Unable to go home, his mother wouldn't want him and he was pretty sure he didn't want her either, he took whatever job he could get. Kitchen Bitch suited him best, he found, even if he just bussed tables and washed dishes. He supplemented his meager earnings with petty theft and kept himself from being bored by decimating the feral rat population of the God awful building he shared with three other rejects his age. One wanted to be an actor or model. All were drug addicts.

Things had been perfect until he saw him. Two years' worth of rage filled him enough that the plastic bag he had been holding with a few frozen dinners melted right out of his hand. He still didn't have great control over his powers.

"Sylar!" he screamed across heavy traffic, ready and willing to leap across stand still taxis to get revenge on the man.
microwavelength: (Default)
((Still NYC Luke.  He was in a fight and got kicked out of a place he was living in and ended up in a homeless shelter for the night to sleep it off.  Contains NSFW violence.))

"That poor, poor dear."

"Give him another blanket, he looks cold."

"How old do you think he is?"

"Can't be more then fourteen. Maybe fifteen."

I’ve been fighting with my body for the past ten minutes to open my eyes, to wake up, to figure out where I am. I want to tell the two old women speaking over me that I’m almost seventeen now, but as the blanket is carefully tucked under my chin, the only thing I can do is gurgle something. I want it to be a ‘fuck you’ but if they heard it at all, the idiots would probably assume I meant ‘thank you.’

“You should call child services.”

“Tomorrow, Beatrice. Let the boy sleep.”

It’s dark when my eyes finally open. I can hear someone crying in the corner, the grunt of someone else doing fuck knows what a few feet away. There are florescent lights in the hallway across from the large room I’m in, illuminating a giant crucifix on the wall. Jesus’ face is demonic, my eyes fixate on it as I push off the scratchy cover and sit up slowly. “What the fuck are you looking at?” I grunt under my breath and get to my feet.

My face hurts. My nose is probably broken. My right eye is swollen shut. I’m a hot mess, lost, but not alone. Unfortunately. This is a homeless shelter. There are rows and rows of cots in this room. It smells like filth and there’s nothing here worth stealing other than a heavy blanket, an empty stainless steel coffee dispenser, or someone else’s shoes. I am well aware of what has happened to me and of who brought me here.

Two days of hunting Jack yielded less than two minutes of being with him before my God decided to raise his hand and smite me down. As I sway, unsteady on my feet, I am grateful that I feel nothing. Nothing at all.

LukeLuke…when will you learn that there’s no one in this world that you can trust? The voice is my mother’s. What a fucking cruel trick of my psyche. I’d laugh if it didn’t hurt to move the corners of my lips. Shoes still on my feet, jacket around me, I weave through the field of broken men to the exit of the building. No one stops me. No one would dare.

Less than an hour later, the sun beginning to touch the sky, a woman with hot breath and smeared makeup calls to me from an alley. I’m not sure where I am, I’ve just been wandering, dried blood under my nose. I guess I must look desperate for her to part her coat at me and half the drunken world behind me. Maybe she’s the desperate one, needing money for a fix. “Got money, sweetheart?” I was right on the second guess. I smirk, prepared to keep going when something tugs between my legs. So. I just nod. And follow her into an alley littered with broken beer bottles the fresh scent of cold piss. She can’t be more than eighteen. Nineteen. God, she’s worse of a mess than I am. I let her hands move to my coat and then to my belt. “Ten bucks for you, honey. I’ll make you feel warm.”

“No,” I sigh. She looks up at me and opens her mouth to ask if I’m fucking with her, probably to tell me to take out my wallet so she can see if I can pay. “I’m going to make you feel warm.”

She giggles, stupid cow. Then she dies. She dies slowly. I make her blood boil and her marrow roast. I melt away her vocal cords and the muscles in her neck until she flops like a fish out of water. I can hear her skin pop as it bursts open under her jacket. Her eyes rupture just after, paste and blood like the ‘tears’ on a Blessed Virgin Mary statue in Mexico coating her face. She gurgles up a final prayer and I finally feel whole. This stupid whore, the little addict that would have sucked my dick for ten dollars to buy her next fix, has shown me the true and terrible beauty this world offers.

Jack is not God. He’s not the devil either. He’s an imposter. A nobody. The twisted face of Jesus on the crucifix that greeted me in that shelter is just a hunk of useless plastic. I slip my hand into my jeans to complete what must be done, kneeling beside the twisted, cooked remains of the girl that did more for me than anyone else ever has. Do you what to know who’s God?

I’m God.

My heart is still pounding when I hail a cab, fingers trembling and sticky as I pull the twenties out of my wallet in the warm back seat. He cabbie takes one glance at me in the rearview and turns, eyes wide. Like he really cares. “Shit man, you look—“

“Like shit, yeah.” I give the driver the address to Jack’s Penthouse, amused to see that the video screen in the back of the cab is starting to slowly melt. “Hurry, all right?” It’s more for my benefit than his. I don’t fucking need a car crash right now due to accidently melting the break or fuel lines in this cab. “If you get me there in ten minutes I’ll give you a hundred bucks.” We make it in twelve, but I’m generous and drop the bills into the guy’s front seat through the window before I scoot out of the back. I’ve melted the leather I was sitting on too. He’s not going to be happy when he finds it in the morning. I doubt my tip’s gonna cover the cost in fixing it. Sucks to be him.

In the lobby of the building, the plants meant to decorate the elevator area wilt and die as I wait patiently for the arrival of the lift’s cab to ferry me up to the top floor. The condo is empty when I step out of the elevator so I linger as I walk through the penthouse. I don’t need to direct my heat, my ability, at anything in particular. The microwaves have a life of their own and I don’t try to control them. Why should I? This is what I am. What I’m meant to be. I let myself ruin Jack’s things until I find my way to the bathroom, turn on the cold spray, and curl up fully clothed in the bottom of his shower.

His shampoo bottles melt. The expensive bath oils high up on the shelves above me run down the walls from split plastic containers and ruin my clothes. I leave them behind before I even turn off the water and step out of the stall. I drip dry across his expensive wooden floors and then dress in the remaining clothes he had his people buy for me while I was living here. It seems like an eternity ago.

Going home is not a fucking option right now. I can’t see Kitty and Jeremy like this. I can’t see Liz either; she’s a stupid cunt who doesn’t know her ass from her nose. Gabriel is dead to me, gone without a word. And that leaves one person. Just one. One who probably never thought she’d never see me again.
microwavelength: (Default)
((Ficlet in the New York verse where Luke gets a job.  Mention of his "friends" at the time in New York.  Also contains NSFW things))


I'm actually pretty fucking surprised that I got hired on the spot for a job that a monkey could do.  Maybe I am a monkey.  It seems fitting.  The frazzled store manager is the sort of older man that probably has a few skeletons in his overstuffed closet when it comes to kids like me with our altar boy looks.  I keep on smiling just the same, dissecting his sickness as he rummages around in a dented metal cabinet for an apron and a shirt to fit me.  I let him hold them up to my chest.  He's pretending to fit it to my shoulders and my waist even if the label clearly shows the garment’s size.  It's gross, but hey, I can boil his fucking brains if he touches me anywhere else.  "We prefer khakis," he's saying in his rumbled voice, nodding to himself as he drapes the dark green uniform shirt over my arm.  "But jeans will work as well.  We'll have you doing stock, you look like a strong enough...boy."

I hate the way he pauses, but the dimples in my cheeks are becoming permanent with the way I grin at him.  Sick.  Fuck.  "Works for me," I say, trying to make my exit.  I've already signed the forms, had my social security card scanned, peed in a little cup at a clinic a few blocks away.  It's a horse and pony show, and I've done drug tests so often now that I really can pee on command.  My aggression is not drug related, though.  No matter how many times my therapists and school have had me tested.

Working at the grocery store is not my life long ambition but it does mean money in my pocket and free things I can either swipe or take from the bin in the back of the storage room my new boss says gets filled with the almost expired goods we take off of the shelves.  It's a nice set up.  Close to home.  And it will keep me from hunting the remainder of the rats in my apartment building to extinction.  A kid can only fry so many fucking rats before he wants something else.

Something human.

I work my first shift that very afternoon.  I have enough energy to spare.  With a few candy bars from the back room bin tucked into my apron, I could probably have worked two shifts without needing a break.  That evening, alone now that my dad's gone off to service the trash trucks this city is in short supply of, I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom.  I can't stand the grime.  My dad lives like a pig and it pisses me off.  Gabriel's apartment is so neat and tidy.  I hate sleeping on the fucking couch too.  I've decided, before I even take off my apron, to clean out the tiny storage room by the front door.  I have a sleeping bag, and there's just enough space inside for me to lay down in there.

Cleaning up the apartment takes less time than I would have thought.  The boxes in the storage room are mostly filled with old newspaper and nothing else of value so I toss them out onto the fire escape to kick into some alley behind the building later.  I clean the walls.  I vacuum the rugs.  I wipe down the television, the table, the stove.  I even reorganize the refrigerator so that I can dump chunky milk down the drain and glare at an empty, crusty bottle of mustard.  What the fuck was my dad doing?  There's more beer than anything else.  Drinking his fucking bread is going to kill him.  As much as I want to dump that shit out too, I decide to simply let him be.  He'll come after me if he things I stole his alcohol.  I'd rather not have to kill my Dad if I can help it.

It's late now.  Dark.  There are sounds above me from a couple that fight and fuck as if the two go hand in hand.  Maybe for some people they do.  My mind's on Kitty.  On her hair to be specific.  I image the smell of the long tendrils going up in smoke.  I imagine the look on her face as I cause her neck to blister.  Her eyelashes to dissolve.  Her--  It's over too fast, and I've only just taken hold of myself with an aggressive hand.  I don't use lotion.  I like a little pain.  Friction.  My release here is not so much about pleasure.  I could give a rat's ass about that.  Sighing, I roll over onto my side.  The sting of the open zipper of my jeans pressing into my thigh is good.

I shift my focus to Liz, but I've already determined her hair's not right.  And I don't want to burn her away into nothing.  Buying me some lunch and letting me use her phone aside, she's from where I'm from.  Newark natives unite…or some fucking bullshit like that.  Mom and Dad are off limits to my fantasies as well.

And that leaves Gabriel.

Gabriel can heal himself when I cook his white skin to a deep pink and brown.  In my mind, as I pump myself and grit my teeth, I imagine my fingers running up his spine.  I leave scars as I pass and by the time I get to the last vertebrae of his neck, he's healed.  It doesn't take too long with that imagery to find my release.  I open my eyes and gaze at the mess in my hand.  It disgusts me, as does the sweat my body is covered in.

There's no afterglow after my atypical teenage jerk off.  There's only shame.  So, I simply wipe off my hand on my shirt and go to sleep.

microwavelength: (Default)
((Ficlet on Luke's first kill.  Takes place in a verse where his mother sent him to live in New York with his father because she couldn't put up with him anymore.  The Gabriel in question refers to an AU Gabriel Gray who has healing but is not Sylar.))

Home run!  Luke Campbell's knocked it out of the park!
I'm usually not for baseball euphemisms.  They mean too many things to people: sexual exploits, doing well at one's job, hitting a hard to attain goal, making progress on a task.  I think my mind is going back to them because that's what is on TV right now.  Yankees.  Recaps of their latest win.  Never knew Dad was a fan. I turn my eyes towards the screen, the angle I'm viewing it at makes the picture look skewed.  Fuzzy.   Sort of like my thoughts right now.
If burning Gabriel's hand and arm had been like reaching second base, then killing someone is hitting a home run with all of the bases loaded.  Grand slam, they call it.  I just hit a grand slam.
It's the first thing that's entered my mind in almost ten minutes, judging by the blinking red light on the DVD player.  The time's never been set, so was pretending that it was exactly twelve midnight the last time our power flickered.  Right now, it is certain that it's 6:43.  In the evening.  In reality, it's just a little bit before dawn.  I've been sitting here for almost two hours now.  Just sitting.
There's a hand on the floor nearby, visible from behind the couch.  Palm up.  The fingers, if you can still call them that, are curled inward in a tight ball.  I pull my knees up to my chest and this smokey room turns into another from long, long ago.
"Hey, Luke!  Want a lollipop?"  His blue eyes are nothing like mine, bright and filled with a liquor haze where I have dark, sullen ones.  He's holding out his hand, palm up and fingers closed over it, offering me what might be inside.  "Come on over here, boy!  Close your eyes and stick out your hand." He's trying to bite back a laugh as I pause. "Guess you don't want this afterall."
There's nothing in his hand, I know it even I stand up and walk over.  I'm pigeon toed, my sneakers too big for me.  I trip over my own feet a lot, even when I'm trying to be slow and step around empty beer cans.  I close my eyes when I near him.  I hold out my arm, bare from the elbow down.  It's not candy I'm given.  Once again, he's decided that I make a far better ashtray than the one I made him for Father's Day in kindergarten.  I gasp, jerking back my arm.  I don't even bother to ask for the lollipop this time.  I know better.
I should know better now too.  The room from six years ago has turned back into the room I've spent the last few weeks in.  I never learn.  Never.  Instead, I crawl towards the hand on the floor and slowly pry apart cooked, brownish pink fingers.  There's no lollipop inside this time either, though it wasn't as if he promised me one.  I don't think lollipops have ever existed, if you want the honest truth.
My first time should be filled with joy.  I should be elated right now, pumped with adrenaline, my heart pounding in my chest.  Instead, I feel cold.  There's no guilt in my heart, no loss.  I simply feel empty.  My old man never did love me even half as much as I loved him.  He never gave me a fucking thing that wasn't wrapped up in pain.  Even now, there's no sense of accomplishment in my moment. 
There's nothing at all.
microwavelength: (Default)
((Ficlet on what happened after Sylar left him at the old diner if Samuel came for him))

I was starving and dying of thirst when he found me. 

It was stupid of me to stick around that ruined diner on the off chance that Sylar would return and we could continue our road trip.  What did I have for him anymore?  It was my fault for telling that prick where his dear sweet daddy was.  I played all of my cards too soon.  At least I learned to never let that happen again.

I'd been sitting in the booth that Sylar destroyed to get at his little toy car when I heard footsteps on the dusty wooden deck outside.  My heart raced.  It had been almost two days by that point and I could hardly stand.  I still tried to just the same, like some kind of fucking kicked puppy, shuffling to that dirty grease spoon diner door.  It opened before I could get there.

There was a light behind him.  I'd call it angelic, but it was just fucking dark in my little corner of hell.  A flashlight beam or a cigarette lighter would have looked just like illumination by the Almighty too.

I noticed his fingernails first.  Dirty, chipped black polish.  What a mess, more of a mess than I was -- and I hadn't even showered in a few days!  He smiled at me.  I scowled at him.  And then he showed me what would become my new home with the wave of his hand like a fucking magician.

Honestly, if Samuel hadn't showed up, I might have just stayed in that diner forever.  Construction workers would have found my bones a few years later, maybe, while clearing away the abandoned diner for some new, classy lifestyle center.  Samuel said that I was loyal.  That I was honest.  That I could be an asset.  I thought he was just some sort of pervert.  How wrong was I?

Sylar gave me the illusion that I belonged somewhere.  That was conjured from my own desire to have a reason to simply be and certainly not because he wanted me to feel special in any way.  Sylar was only interested in himself.  Kinda like I had been before he crashed my house and tried to kill my mom.  But Samuel?  Samuel's given me a real family.  He's given me love and support.  Most of all, though, he's given me a purpose.

Even if that purpose is simply to keep the popcorn flowing for the guests at the Carnival.  It's better than nothing.  And it's kind of funny freaking out the kids when I pop their corn from kernels sitting in my hand.
microwavelength: (in the car)
((ficlet for a community on how Luke ended up in New York City))

Mom hasn't said a fucking word in two hours. If it wasn't for the constant hum of the engine of the station wagon each time we coast to a red light it would be dead silent in here. I really do think that she's stopped breathing, but I can't look at her. I refuse.

The tunnel from New Jersey into New York City is packed. We're at an almost stand still, and mom suddenly throws on the radio to calm her nerves or maybe to put mine at ease. She's probably wondering why I haven't asked her any questions yet. It's not like I don't know what's happening. Hell, the moment she busted down my door this morning and told me to pack my shit I knew I'd be going on a one way trip.

I hate it when she cries. As we burst into the light, I can see that her face is wet out of the corner of my eye. Just like she had been last night when she came to pick me up from juvie again. I've been there three times. It's not my fault I have an unfair advantage in fights. Or that it's so much fun to hurt people that piss me the fuck off. Turning, I decide that it's better not to think about this right now. Why does she get to cry when she's going to throw me away and forget I exist? My eyes are on the city, lifting towards the tops of buildings obscured by the smog of approaching twilight.

It's dark when the car finally stops. Mom doesn't offer to help me with my bags. "He's on the third floor," her shaking voice reminds me, and I nod, pulling my suitcase out of the backseat without a word.

I'm not going tell her that I love her, even if I do. I don't say that I'm scared of my old man or of this neighborhood. Even though I am.

She doesn't wave as she drives off and I realize, finally, that I truly am alone. I can't see the stars in New York like I could in the suburbs of Newark. Down the block, a car backfires. Maybe it's a gun. I don't stick around to find out, scrambling up the steps.
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