The truth about cockroaches

Once again, Sylar and I visited Mo-idiot’s place. “Finally,” I thought, “he is ending the charade.” No one wants to be Mo-idiot’s friend and to pretend was absurd… even for Sylar. So Mo-idiot made the first move, drugging the chai and strapping us to the chair. I actually didn’t see it coming. Father made the recipe to help him rest after weeks of inconsistent sleep. Ah, the memories. Well, I gave him that round, but the game was ours.

Honestly, were they going to flirt or were they going to get it over with? Humans… always dancing around the point. I would have crawled out of Sylar’s pocket and slapped Mo-idiot myself but Sylar’s (or should I say Zane’s) jeans were a little worn out and my claws got caught in the loose thread. Fortunately though, the IV was broken from my previous visit and Sylar was just faking it. What would he say in this situation? Oh, yes… “LOL!”

So up to the ceiling Mo-idiot went (it was my idea. hehe). I wondered how he liked feeling rejected. I untangled myself from the jeans, went to the kitchen, came back with some peas and projected them towards Mo-idiot. It didn’t create the desired effect. He was eating them as I shot them up to him. I needed something better… maybe something that would give him indigestion. So I went back to the kitchen to dig for something else. Unfortunately, we were inturrupted.

“Suresh?”
Yes?

“Suresh?”
Yes???

“It’s Peter Petrelli.”
What do you want, emo-locks?

“Mohinder?!”
Security?! Sylar?

Suddenly the name sounded familiar. “Petrelli.” It was on The List. *gasp* I remembered. I crawled into Sylar’s back pocket and let him know what Petrelli was capable of. He didn’t let me finish my explanation because he was too hungry. A couple days earlier I offered him some of my crickets. He looked at me skeptically and told me that he could eat cockroaches but he wouldn’t touch the cricket. I told
him I couldn’t eat cockroaches. When I was an egg my mother taught me that cockroaches were made to work in terrible conditions for little pay. No wait, those were sweatshop workers. I don’t remember exactly what she told me but I don’t think I’ll have one anytime soon. My thoughts were distracted by a high pitched shriek. “My ears!” I howled. I didn’t think I’d be able to hear, ever again, the sweet chirping of my most beloved food item.

Then it stopped and we were hurled through the air by a Petrelli who soon became invisible. So he met Claude. Interesting… Sylar couldn’t handle it anymore. He took some glass shards (probably what was left of my terrarium) and finished off Petrelli. That easy? The answer to the question hit us both to the ground. Ouch. Sylar could do with a diet. Remind me never to sit in the back pocket again.

The evening was saved with Sylar munching down on some Mendez brain and we spent a rather quiet night in the studio. It turns out the future is going to look like colorful poop smudged on a canvas. He offered me some brain as an afterthought, but it was half-bitten and drooled over. I politely refused.