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maskormenacelogs2016-09-01 11:11 pm
pillz) wrote in maskormenacelogs2016-09-01 11:11 pm
Entry tags:
O5 👶 TIME WON'T SAVE OUR SOULS
WHO: Satya Wallace, Gabriel "Sylar" Gray & Joseph "That" Kavinsky
WHERE: The streets of Nonah
WHEN: Early September 2016, early evening
WHAT:The Nipple Collection Agency is here Specters of vengeance descend upon eyebrows in North Carolina.
WARNINGS: R for violence, chemical attacks, and offensive language. Cw spiders and problematic language.
[rush hour in nonah, north carolina.
the streets are backed up with traffic at every light and pedestrians are sardined near enough to knock elbows. despite this, the city still has a pleasant feel to it, an inculcated and very old tradition of gritting one's teeth and bearing through the ever-thickening mess and stress of contemporary life. people apologize when they collide around corners, offer pursed smiles when some idiot stumbles and stops in the regular flow of traffic.
amid that chaos, it's easy enough to miss the champagne-colored hondayota and its false plate, parked roadside down by a few conscientiously planted gingkos. and the two young, thin, heroin-chic people inside of it, twinned by their narrow faces and pale hair, all black clothes and secrecy. kavinsky jingles his car keys as he puts them in his pocket. he still doesn't know the active ingredients or unique details of satya's power, but he does know enough to ask—]
You got the cunt? [he cocks his head and adjusts the items on his lap. the mask, the gun.] Say when.
WHERE: The streets of Nonah
WHEN: Early September 2016, early evening
WHAT:
WARNINGS: R for violence, chemical attacks, and offensive language. Cw spiders and problematic language.
[rush hour in nonah, north carolina.
the streets are backed up with traffic at every light and pedestrians are sardined near enough to knock elbows. despite this, the city still has a pleasant feel to it, an inculcated and very old tradition of gritting one's teeth and bearing through the ever-thickening mess and stress of contemporary life. people apologize when they collide around corners, offer pursed smiles when some idiot stumbles and stops in the regular flow of traffic.
amid that chaos, it's easy enough to miss the champagne-colored hondayota and its false plate, parked roadside down by a few conscientiously planted gingkos. and the two young, thin, heroin-chic people inside of it, twinned by their narrow faces and pale hair, all black clothes and secrecy. kavinsky jingles his car keys as he puts them in his pocket. he still doesn't know the active ingredients or unique details of satya's power, but he does know enough to ask—]
You got the cunt? [he cocks his head and adjusts the items on his lap. the mask, the gun.] Say when.
no subject
More than Sylar is aware of in this moment. Point is: the heavy traffic of the street is a sensory overload but he imagines it hides him, protects him, more than it hinders him. He doesn't look alert, on his way from work to his home, but there is always a little tension, settled high in his spine.
Sweat gathering under his black shirt collar. A kind of distant whine between his ears, the onslaught of street noise like a bad violin note against his superhearing. ]
no subject
She is not, by any stretch of the imagination, as good at this as some (read: werewolves) are. But she's still very good, able to pinpoint people with what some might call spider senses. It's not precisely a sense of smell, except that it's the only way to translate it. She drums her fingers against her knee, and lifts her head.
There it is.
The smell of thief.
He's sweating, and it makes his smell more distinct in the spider part of Saya's brain. Her eyes slit open, all six of them, but even someone looking at her directly would be hard-pressed to describe why she looked strange for a moment.]
There.
[She doesn't point. Instead she runs her fingers over the dash, cups her hand and opens it, and blows. A spider the size of a quarter lands on the windshield, showing K how to aim.]
There.
[And there he is.]
powerpose as approooooved on aim
the disguise was neither his idea nor his design. the long, curving beak and eerie, hollow eyes of a plague doctor. it's both anachronistic and timeless. he waits for satya to tie her own false face over her head.]
Literally or metaphorically.
[he buzzes down the window, looking at the spider instead of the sliding pane. he picks up the pistol again, the strange, matte model light in his hand.] Cherry, popped, [he tells her. he might be talking about toasting the hondayota or he might be talking about shooting a dude in broad daylight. in either case, he's sociopathically cool, very cool, very music video, if there are music videos about weird kids in plague masks riding shitboxes around downtown north carolina, as he sights across the street.
a civilian spots him, the ghastly face and pistol muzzle. she opens her mouth to scream, but the sound doesn't emerge til after the dim, airy thwip of dart gun. the tiny projectile sleeks through the air—
and lands squarely in the nook of Gabriel's left collarbone. the dart delivers payload immediately, an autonomic nervous mushroom cloud of white-hot agony.]
>(
He looks up. A mask in the window of a car. Two masks.
Two steps have dangerous control and purpose. The kind of unassuming, fuzzily mild-mannered affect he's been wearing semi-regularly over the past two months is sheered away, all hard lines and dull-eyed focus, and then there is pain. He's good with pain, generally, but this tickles his nervous system like someone's dashed acid in his blood. His grimace is genuine, white teeth flashing and eyes flinching shut behind his glasses, one hand clawing at that spot over his heart as he staggers to a halt. In the late afternoon sun, almost imperceptible, a ribbon of electricity ripples across the back of his knuckles.
Much more clearly seen: he flings out his other hand, and a wild leap of lightning comes zigzagging in the blink of an eye in the direction of the car. It slams into the frame just above the open window, fingers of electricity darting, biting, soaked into the metal cage that makes up the car's body. The worst damage will be the spots where smooth paint has melted and burned away.
It sounds like a gunshot, though. ]
no subject
[She watches this with fascination. For all that she could bite something - and for all that she has - she's never done it from a distance, and never to someone she hasn't planned to eat. Never in self-defense or attack. And no imPorts. So this is a new thing.]
The flesh begins to rot within fifteen min-
[She doesn't finish the statement when the thud of the lightning hits the car, and her feet literally punch through the cab in an attempt to steady herself. She looks more annoyed than frightened.]
My heels broke.
Kavinsky.
no subject
the next, a laugh escapes him-- bright, breathless, barely muffled by the plague doctor's beak.] You broke my fucking car. [hard to say if he's talking to satya or yelling at sylar through the rolled-down glass. he sticks his head out the window and looks out at the flank of his vehicle, sees a shivering bubble of paint. kavinsky's eyes narrow into crescent moons, and then he looks out at sylar in his pained clinch.]
You don't need shoes. You don't need anything. That's your real superpower, sweetheart.
[that was probably for saya. the next instant, the engine roars to life. kavinsky replaces his head out the window with a cellphone, snapping a photographic keepsake, and then the scorched hondayota is yanking out into the traffic with a scream of tires.]
no subject
He moves with them, if a little at a wander as he studies the projectile, pinched between his fingers. His other hand loosens the top most button of his shirt, scratches with dull fingernails beneath fabric and over that painful injection site.
The flesh begins to rot within fifteen--
That's what he'd heard. Flesh, as a word, sounds like something rotten already, a sort of flabby, mushy set of consonants. Flesh-rot, flesh-rot, kind of a heart beat rhythm, a trudge, his foot steps. He should go to a hospital. He sets his course, inevitably, for home, like a dog intent on slinking beneath a porch to lick its wounds. ]
no subject
[She's turning her head, looking back, twisting, and then looking back at Kavinsky.]
You don't know a quarter of what I can do.
[She nods her head up.]
Take a left and hope he dies in a world of pain.
no subject
in the meantime
color intensifies behind sylar's eyes, inside sylar's head. somebody is trying to ask him if he's okay-- somebody with grey worked heavily in through her brown curls, a round face heavy with concern. but her lipstick smarts and the vegetables in her grocery bag look as cartoonishly green as fake poison on the old tv shows on mother's old tv set, and then for an instant, virginia is there and reaching for his arm, her bird-boned face contorted with disapproval.
but the wrong voice leaks out of her thin lips.] —quite all right, dear? Don't pay the young people any mind, what's important is--!
no subject
He flinches his eyes closed just as the woman closes in on him, and opens them again to the raw-boned visage of the late Virginia Gray, and someone else's voice slipped through the seam of her mouth, like a mask.
His eyes flare open, wider, pulling his arm back as a twinge of static electricity teases between them. ]
no subject
[It's a nondescript corner.]
And we'll burn only the most beautiful cars when you finish.
[She's hungry to hunt now, having watched K hunt.]
no subject
but cut to our main man!
gabriel has a number of civilians backing away from him now, more confused than particularly frightened, trying to reassure him, trying to hide behind one another. the woman who'd been trying to help him looks more terrified. a particularly valiant gentleman actually interposes himself between import and lady, his ordinary face piercing the visual hallucination. blink, and the strangers are only strangers again, looking bewildered and stupid in the intensifying sunshine.
but the rabble is getting louder, somehow. blare of horns, people shouting. cellphones swiveling to focus on him. and somewhere in the cacophony, a woman's voice:] Gabriel. Gabriel. [an echo seems to weave around daytime street lights and plateglass windows. maybe she's that way.] Come on. I'm pretty sure when you said 'damaged goods,' this isn't what you meant for us.
no subject
Elle--
[ Gabriel-- Sylar-- reels away from this latest gesture of help, both intolerant to the crowd as well as somewhat unthinking, not quite comprehending the way people are raising their phones at him, and not just because that wasn't a thing in 2006.
A lick of electricity dances from his shoulder, runs its finger along the side of a parked car, briefly snaps away from a parking meter.
He turns his head to where he can hear -- where he thinks he can hear -- her voice, and moves in that direction with about as much grace as a man dying of thirst seeks an oasis. A wave of his hand is more vindictive -- fine fingers of electricity spark and short the sparse forest of devices raised aloft. ]
no subject
[her voice snaps into sharp clarity at the same time that her figure slides into focus. she's on the curb, an uneven sea of light and pedestrians between him and her. she'd always seemed like the kind of girl who was, according to dubious conventional wisdom, too pretty to wear shapeless hoodies and all that, but there she is. ever offending seventeen magazine with her 'made in a private science laboratory' approach to life.
she waves at him. and maybe intuitively he knows what she's getting at. an animal shelter got shut down there a week ago— the protesters gathered outside in the days prior had impeded his walk to work. likely as not, there's running water. syringes. something to help.]
You have to be able to see better than an ordinary man, to hit targets. You know that, right?