closed.

[bosewicht]

WHO: Gabriel Gray and Sarissa Theron.
WHERE: Maurtia Falls.
WHEN: April 21st.
WHAT: All good things must come to an end.
WARNINGS: Reference to suicide and murder.

[ It's snowing in Maurtia Falls, unusually. Snow comes down as light as sugar, at first, before picking up in density, and sharp winds.

So the snow caught in Sarissa's hair and clothing will melt, bringing in the damp with her when she returns to her car. Leaving the heater blasting makes quick work of ice into meltwater. But that's really no excuse when it comes to Sylar, who she will only find lurking in her backseat when she's clipped the door closed behind her, the fog of her windows having done something to hide his presence until his familiar visage appears in her rearview.

He is also soaking wet, from more than just snowfall. His coat, his clothing, his shoes, filled with riverwater. It soaks into the upholstery, puddles on the carpeted car floor, imprints along with it the smell of mud and dampness. ]

Hi.

[ Self-aware, ironic, but the usual biting facetiousness is absent in his tone as he considers her. Miserable, passive in his slouch. ]

Comments

[magnitudes]

( She jumps, despite herself. Sarissa's skill at suppressing reactions is better limited to pain than to surprises, and the sound of just about any unexpected voice in her car would have been unexpected (precious crapbox car, how she explicably wishes you were less crapbox, as if this were somehow the fault of the car and not the murderer hiding in it).

If the air smells like petrichor, if there's a sort of static charge in the atmosphere— clearly neither of those things are cause for concern. She turns to look over her shoulder, lip caught in a savage curl, verging on a snarl. She's more and less raw, simultaneously: it's taking different shapes on her, these days. Waking up and remembering being a sadist certainly doesn't help.

Her hands are tight fists. )

What kinda game are you playing this time, Sylar?

[bosewicht]

[ He senses it.

Call it a knack, you know. Sylar rolls a look skywards as if he could see through the car's roof and chase that smell of ozone. His attention wanders back to her, his smile fleeting, crooked. ]

That's new, [ he says, in his quiet croak. Like he spent a lot of time throwing up river water. Seems likely. ] Smells nice on you.

[ But she said something, and he can sense his interest, stirring within, muddying his thoughts. His brings his face down into his hands, rubs along socket ridges with rough fingers. ]

I don't know. Dealer's choice.

lounges here seductively, uses body to hide dust and mothballs

[magnitudes]

Yeah. Dunno all the ins and outs of it yet, but. Might not be your up of tea.

( Her voice is very tense, much like the rest of her, a spring coiled tight. She hopes it a matter of being ready and not on the verge of snapping.

Gabriel Gray was a nice guy who she'd liked a lot. Sylar was a monstrosity. It's still so uncomfortable seeing them and knowing they're the same person, and she wonders if this feeling of disgust and dread and just being so damn sad is what Sarah and the others see when they look at her, now they're all woken up. She swallows, and it makes her wonder if she's empathetic or just stupid when she turns the key in the ignition and lets the car engine turn over.

The pads of her fingers feel hot and dry, and she wonders if that means that lightning isn't too far away, or that she's just stressed, and she irritably grabs a sweater from off the passenger seat and throws it at him. )

You put that on and you put on your damn seat beat. ( Police, hospital. Hospital, police. Police, definitely, but she's got no idea if this is all gonna go to pieces before she's down the driveway. ) Why did you come here? Maybe a little less cryptic, this time.

ha ha ha

[bosewicht]

[ A sweater sleeve hits him in the face, reflexes lazy, and he turns his attention to the object. Unfolds it, feels its texture, curious about what Sarissa is doing with an item of clothing apparently big enough for him. The car's momentum sets him to sway in his seat, and Sylar goes to put the sweater on.

She clearly understands this game enough.

But the words still feel a little like regurgitating stones, and there's enough pride left in him that weeping in her back seat is intolerable, but it's a little what he wants to do. The zither of the seatbelt comes first. ]

There's something wrong with me, [ he says, finally, his head down, looking at his hands. ] The 'drown it at birth' kind of wrong. News at 11, right?

[ He lifts his head. ]

I'm here because you know it, too. And I can't die -- and even if I could, death is worthless, here. But I'll tell them everything, if you want. If that's what you want.