O8 👶 you don't seek murder like this often

[pillz]

WHO: Gabriel "Sylar" Gray, Elliot Alderson, Jesse Pinkman & Joseph Kavinsky
WHERE: Maurtia Falls & surrounding areas
WHEN: February 2017
WHAT: revenge screaming
WARNINGS: Up to NC-17 for prose-written violence I guess? Substances/poisoning, torture, etc.



closed to elliot alderson;

[it's two in the morning and kavinsky is at home. one of. his apartment. 'home.' close enough.

as homes go, kavinsky's is a boyish monstrosity. a man cave stretched out into a full three rooms, and on a spectacularly ridiculous budget. his flatscreen tv takes up most of one wall. the wireless subwoofer speakers look like cell towers stationed throughout the lacquered floor, if people tended to balance tumblers of half-finished liquor and Cokes and spent ashtrays on top of cell towers. the pool table folds out of the fucking wall, and it's only half out this evening, a stolen stop sign jammed into the nook. the tv is blaring some stupid show about guns. there is an inexplicable knife sticking out of the black leather sofa.

he's staring at his cellphone, but in reality, he's listening for the door. despite appearances, the first activity is actually closely tied to the other. also related: he has a handgun shoved down the back of his pants and a grenade in his pocket.

just in case.]

closed to gabriel "sylar" gray & eventual jesse pinkman;

[the bake shack is not maurtia falls' finest, but its a cut above the neighboring options. the diner has a fairly standard menu. tuna, blt, blt with avocado, buffalo chicken, chicken fingers, grilled chicken, parmesan chicken, chicken, cheddar and broccoli, that kind of thing. the food tends to be a little fresher than most of its counterparts, thanks to some shady dealings, and they occasionally take inspired liberties with such additions as cilantro and white pepper on the daily specials. the service is above average. slightly higher, if you happen to have television experience and handsome eyebrows.

the waitress has been crushing on him awhile. she probably isn't the one who put the blood in his coffee.

either way, she's already sashayed away by the time the effects start to kick in. an instant's fatigue. and then the room starts to spin in sylar's vision. the waitress' ass swerves into a sickening perpendicular, the second before she disappears around the corner of the counter. in the kitchen, there will be someone there to grab her, cover her mouth, shove some money in the pocket of her short-shorts. they'd paid the cook twice as much.

the sunshine coming through the window feels overbright. gabriel still has strength in his hands, a shade of lucidity to his thoughts, but it's fading on him fast even as neon spots start to crawl into his vision.]

Comments

[bosewicht]

[ 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. ]

hi sorry hi

[raw]

[ Elliot is himself when he shows up, modern clothes and bushbaby eyes, which probably sucks for Kavinsky because that's not the half that really likes him. Still, in this weird chess game he's playing with Mr Robot the goal has become to capture pieces before they can be used by the opposition. One takes an interest, and so does the other. And hen it escalates.

Probably this is the escalation.

He's unarmed, doesn't own a gun or have any particular powers that can stand in a gun's place. Stands for a moment outside with his eyes closed, hand against the doorframe, wrestling with some internal tiger. Then he decides fuck it and flicks the first domino in the chain, lets himself in (even if he has to pick the lock just to prove he can). ]

Yo, man.

[ Like he's here to do drugs with a friend and not aid and abet a crime. He comes over to the pool table and tugs it violently all the way out of the wall, swings his backpack off his shoulders and starts to unpack his supplies, assemble them with the intense concentration of a sniper putting together their rifle. ]