[ The restaurant seems to tip sideways, and Sylar squeezes his eyes closed. Oops. Oops, this should not be happening. Oops.
The chicken salad in front of him seems to slide off the table, except it doesn't, that's just him tipping almost all the way over before a hand comes down on the flat of his table. There is no waiting for this to pass, apparently, hauling himself out of his chair. If he can make it outside. Into a cab. Run. Scurry.
Or swerve, a bit, weaving between tables and chairs as he flinches against the sunlight. Is an indiscreet sight, over six foot tall and dressed in his usual severe black, but pretence of fitting in is pushed to the wayside in favour of getting out.
Like any predator worth its salt, he knows he's being hunted. ]
no subject
The chicken salad in front of him seems to slide off the table, except it doesn't, that's just him tipping almost all the way over before a hand comes down on the flat of his table. There is no waiting for this to pass, apparently, hauling himself out of his chair. If he can make it outside. Into a cab. Run. Scurry.
Or swerve, a bit, weaving between tables and chairs as he flinches against the sunlight. Is an indiscreet sight, over six foot tall and dressed in his usual severe black, but pretence of fitting in is pushed to the wayside in favour of getting out.
Like any predator worth its salt, he knows he's being hunted. ]