Enemy Of Your Enemy

Participants:

gillian_icon.gif peter3_icon.gif sylar_icon.gif

Scene Title Enemy Of Your Enemy
Synopsis The enemy of your enemy may not be your friend, but he might be able to help you anyway.
Date November 29, 2008

Roy Wilkins Park - Queens


There was a note left in the apartment. In Gillian's handwriting.

Gabriel, I need to meet you at Roy Wilkins Park in Queens. I'll be waiting there until late. Please meet me soon. It's something important that can't be discussed in our home. I'll be by the basketball court on the far east side from the parking lot.

In the park, with the evening well settled, she leans against the fence, wrapped tightly in warm clothes and a scarf that covers almost her whole face. A whisp of red highlighted hair hangs out of her hood, caught in the wind. There's an anxious sound to her heartbeat, to her breath, and her ability is kept firmly under control.

At this time of night, in this corner of the park, the person approaching Gillian now can really be only one person. Silhouetted in half-light from streetlamps and the light pollution bouncing between earth and sky, Sylar's form is recognisable if muffled through the black woolen trenchcoat worn to protect against the cold. A grey sweater beneath that, grey slacks, sensible shoes, previously combed hair now mussed thanks to the weather and his journeying, these are details that come into sight but aren't as relevant as the look of guarded concern on expressive features, interrupted with the black framed glasses he wears.

Gillian, he greets before he can come within talking range, but it doesn't take too long, a few moments passing as the sound of his footsteps sound out. "What's going on?" His voice is mild, confused, and underlined with concern. Had their home been compromised? Why had her note been so vague?

Just like the time she was attacked, the park is empty. In fact it's supposed to be closed. Too cold to be of much public use, there isn't the sound of interlopers who could get in the way at the very least. Gillian takes in a shaky breath at the telepathic voice in her head. Despite the cold, her eyes are moist, as if she'd been crying, and the moisture grows when she sees his shadowed form looming in the distance. "Gabriel," she says softly, behind the scarf. Someone with normal hearing couldn't understand what she said, but his hearing isn't normal.

Who did he kill to get that?

She shakes her head, closing her eyes a little before she moves away from the chainlink fence and walks closer to him, beginning to untwine the scarf. It's him. He's safe. "I'm sorry," she apologizes softly, as if she did something terrible. "I believe you wouldn't hurt me. I know you wouldn't." He could have a thousand times and he didn't. She lifts a hand and pulls back her sleeve to check the time of her watch.

That anxious sound increases, and she moves he hand under her coat, grasping at something under it.

There's a sudden rush of air, a pressure change so subtle most people wouldn't notice. To Sylar it's like a gunshot going off, but the gravity of the sound is only further impressed by the gravity of who created it. Appearing in the blink of an eye behind Gillian, is none other than Peter Petrelli. He stands with his head tilted down, eyes upturned towards Sylar, regarding him with a stern expression of furrowed brows and creased scar. His black suit looks a little dusty, narrow tie caught in the cold night breeze, blowing loose from his buttoned up suit jacket. "Sylar," Peter's voice is level and remarkably calm for one of their meetings, "I need your help." This is a joke, right?

Her apology should be indication enough, and yet, it doesn't take the edge off the fact that a sworn enemy - or at least… one of them - materialises into reality. Sylar is perfectly still for a moment, eyes hidden when the surface of his glasses catches the light nearby in glare as Peter's words fall between them… before his hand reaches out, shoving with telekinetic energy with the intent to pin Peter against the fencing Gillian was just leaning against.

It would have been easy for Peter to make a move before Sylar - he had the advantage of knowledge - and his words imply he's not here to fight. It doesn't matter much right now. Not right now. Give him a moment. "No you don't," he sneers, teeth flashing as his lips curl, as if Peter's sentiment were absurd.

Appearing behind her takes her by surprise, as if that wasn't part of the deal. Gillian jumps and turns around at the voice, grip lost on whatever she was grabbing under her coat. The telekinesis doesn't touch her, but she looks from the man with the scar, to the man who has harbored her for over a month now, protected her, taught her. "Gabriel, please," she says outloud, voice pained as she looks back at him, but she does pull out the shiny Company issue gun that he gave her for her birthday a month ago.

She doesn't point it at either of them, keeping it trained on the ground. Even with the startles, her ability is tightly closed off, kept her herself, held in reserve if she needs it. She can feel them both, two pulls wanting energy, but neither of them get it, for now.

"Just listen to him. This is the one that helped me, the one who got me out of there before his Company showed up, the one who jumped in front of me and protected me…" And also the one who told her that the man she's been growing to like, and maybe more, murders people.

Peter is launched off of his feet the moment Sylar reaches out for him. He smashes up against the chain-link fence with a clatter, arms pinned out to either side as his hands are yanked from his pockets. With his head turned to one side, forced back from the telekinetic pressure, Peter struggles to speak, brow lowered and creased, eyes intently staring at Sylar as he presses his lips into a thin line. His mind reaches out to Sylar, trying to stop him, to keep him from doing this, but in return all he is rewarded with is the telepathic shriek of feedback, and the multitude of birds speaking in the back of Sylar's mind.

"Nnnh!" Peter reels from the exact same mistake his counterpart had made, but he relinquishes contact sooner, before the shrieking cries of the avian telepathy overwhelm him. "S-sylar, stop." Sylar, not Gabriel.

Sylar flinches as Peter does as the piercing sound of feedback knifes through his brain, glasses sliding, but his hand doesn't waver though tension lines his body. While the hand keeping the agent pinned in place doesn't shift, the other one trembles mildly as it comes up to wrench the reading glasses from his face and they fall with a quiet clatter on the ground, fury evident. For now, he's an open book - a sense of betrayal, a healthy dose of confusion, but violent anger as well. "They want nothing better than to kill me, Gillian," he says, voice somehow calm, save for that pitch of tension, eyes locked on Peter. The anger is melting into something else, though - anticipation, and he steps closer. "And you're an idiot for believing otherwise. But that's okay. I think this is working out well, don't you?"

There's a skip of her heart with what he says, a pain that doesn't fade, but Gillian walks over to him, joining him as he approaches Peter against the fence. The gun is still held, but she still keeps it lowered to the hard pavement. "He didn't come here to kill you," she says softly. "And I would have stopped him if he tried, I promise." Then she whispers softer, so she hopes only he can hear, 'This is why I couldn't have us meet in the apartment.'

"S-Sylar," Peter struggles under the telekinetic force, "Damnit listen to her!" He tries to move, muscles flex and Niki's strength rises up as he tries to physically overpower the telekinesis — it's only partly successful, and in the end all it does is cause the chain-link fence to buckle further. "I need your help — to kill the other me, before he destroys the whole city and tries to kill us both!" The words are spit out, this is like a nightmare to him, turning to the one person he hates in the world more than anyone. "I'm not strong enough to stop him on my own!"

Sylar's eyes lock on Peter as the man struggles out his explanation, that predatory look not quite leaving him. This is worse than a hunger, this is a personal want that transcends even the basest of urges that go hand-in-hand with his ability. But they're talking, throwing explanations at him like so many buckets of water on a raging fire, and his mouth parts a little as he takes in this information, eyes narrowed. Another sneer twists at his mouth. "You're right," he says, voice low.

Sylar's gaze slowly drags to meet Gillian's, a flat look like lasts for several seconds, before his outstretched hand relaxes. The invisible hooks of telekinesis disappear, letting Peter fall as he may, and Sylar maintains eye contact with Gillian, as if telling her, without a voice in her head or without one out loud, that it's their funeral if she's wrong. And no amount of ice cream can make up for this.

He looks back towards Peter, hands in fists at his side, now. "You want us to work together?" Sylar asks, incredulous, quiet. As if asking, too, how this is possible.

The eyes drop away, moving toward the ground as she's scrutinized. Gillian's got a lot of stress in her heart, anxiety that she's unable to mask even if she tried to. "You can't fight them both alone, and a fight between all three of you— that would cause more damage than… than the Bomb did maybe." She looks up again, first at Peter. There's a clench of tension, before she looks back at Gabriel — no matter what, he'll always be Gabriel to her — and she says softly. "There's worse things to look out for— worse that could happen. Worse that's going to happen. And maybe if…" She trails off, as if she doesn't know what she could continue with.

After sliding down from where he was held up against the fence, Peter slouches down onto his hands and knees as he chokes and coughs for a moment, struggling to push himself up to his feet. Peter looks like hell, dark circles around his eyes, reddened and sunken in. "I know I can't beat him, not alone. He's… He has Ted's power." There's an edge there, sharp and fierce, "I don't know if what I've learned can stop him, and I won't risk anyone I care about to fight him." At least he's being honest. "I don't have any other choice, and neither do you. Because if we don't stop him, he's going to keep going after people close to you." His eyes flit for a moment to Gillian, then back to Sylar, "She told me what happened. I — We can't let him do this." He tries to cover for Gillian's awkward silence, best as he can.

"I don't intend to let him do anything," Sylar says, letting Gillian's words flow by as he focuses on Peter, brimming with tension. But he holds it in check. It's not uncontrollable. He's not the one, here, who has problems with control, and his demeanor is practically ice as he regards Peter, taking note of the obvious weaknesses with some satisfaction. "What makes you think I need help?" No, not that kind of help. That goes without saying. His voice is cold, tone sharp. "What makes you think I'd need you at all?"

Though she's ignored for the most part, Gillian doesn't stay out of it, doesn't stay quiet like a good girl probably should. "Because you needed me. And even then— we want to stop him. All of us do." She could have once, she had the chance. That may be why she winces and glances down at her gun "The three of us working together can stop him— kill him and make sure he doesn't come back, doesn't hurt anyone else— and doesn't go nuclear in the process."

Getting up from the ground, Peter tilts his head to the side and reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, "She's right." Peter growls out the words, closing his eyes for a moment to breathe in a slow, tired breath. "I hate the idea of working with you, I hate the idea of even letting you live after wht you did to Isaac, after what you did to Helena." Peter scowls, visibly, "But I know there's one thing you do well, Sylar, and that's kill. If you think you can take him all on your own, fine. — I'll leave." Peter holds up both of his hands, looking to Gillian, then back to Sylar. "You you're that confident, then I'll let you handle it all on your own. But I know when he comes for me, when that painting you made happens." Peter arches a brow, "Do you?"

A resentful glance is cast Gillian's way, and he can't help it. His telepathic voice lashes out through her head, Who's side are you on?, but Peter is already talking. It's when the younger man speaks of Isaac, that Sylar's mouth goes dry. Of course. Of course he had to have told Gillian everything. How else would she even be here. For a moment, Sylar's regards the ground, though his head doesn't duck, keeping his posture of pride and strength, then looks back up at Peter in a hard glare when that flippant question is tossed his way. It takes a moment, as if he's making sure his voice will occur as evenly as it should, before he admits, "No. I don't know. What's your plan?" What was that saying that Ethan had articulated to him? Like that one chink said, the enemy of my enemy is my fuckin' friend. Sylar's mouth twists a little in a small smirk. Somehow, it doesn't quite work in this instance.

There's a visible flinch when the mental voice lashes out at her. Gillian actually takes a step back, unable to look at them while the one with the scar reveals all the reasons he can't forgive the man he's asking help from. Reasons she now knows. There's a glance upward at the mention of a girl's name, as if she wants to ask something, but she looks back down, quietly scowling at the pavement of the basketball court. It's only when he admits that he doesn't know and asks for a plan that she looks back up, first at Gabriel, and then to Peter. "It includes me, whatever the fuck your plan is," she insists firmly, a determination in her heart beat and the sound of her voice.

"Lure him into a trap. I know what powers he has, what weaknesses he has." Peter tilts his head to one side, "I know he's going to ambush me at the Company facility in the Bronx, after disabling the security. I know you won't willingly go back into that facility, and I won't risk the lives of anyone working there by letting you in either." Peter's eyes wander, "I can make him chase me. With his phasing, I can't just teleport him around, but I can have him follow me." Dark eyes scan the ground, then peer up at Sylar. He can hardly believe this is happening, "We lure him out into the open, and I lead him straight to you," His eyes move away from Sylar, "and Gillian." It definately includes her.

"That's my plan. We keep the Company, PARIAH, Phoenix, all of that out of this." Peter's expression shifts to a lopsided frown. "Once he's dead, once he's gone, we go our seperate ways. I don't try to screw you over, you don't try to screw me over." Peter narrows his eyes slightly, "No secret Company agent, no last minute strangleholds." The best he can hope for is a feigned agreement, "We take him out, with as little casualties around him as possible. Agreed?"

At Gillian's addition, he glances towards her, uncertainty in his eyes, now, when before. But he doesn't voice, nor even reach into her mind to voice it there, just listens to Peter with his head tilted in an almost birdlike way. "Agreed," Sylar readily obliges when it's called for, voice almost toneless. They can at least pretend that that seals the deal for now. He might even tell Munin to forego her birds, keep Vanguard away as much as the groups Peter lists. But he's not going to shake hands on it - not because of the possible insincerity, but the idea is almost repulsive, in the literal sense of the word, like trying to get two magnets with the same polarity together. Sylar even takes a step back. "When." Simple question, asked simply - as if to reduce the amount of words they have to trade while temporarily reaching the same goal.

That she's not excluded seems to be enough for Gillian. Only now does she put the gun away, turning the safety back on and shoving it into a pocket in the inside of her coat. There's a puff of misty breath in the cold air in front of her, but the determination doesn't fade, and she steps over to actually stand beside the man she's lived with for a month— the one she just found out is a murderer. And this time she does choose to stay quiet, looking at Peter. The anxiety doesn't fade, but it does settle some, swept up in the determination.

"We've got a week. Maybe." Peter's brows tense, his hands tucking back into his pockets, "We're running out of time." In more ways than one, if Peter's dream of the future was any indication. "Keep a bird outside of Primatech, and try to stay close to the Bronx. I don't know where you're living," He looks to Gillian, anxiously, "I don't want to know." Dark eyes lift up to Sylar again, and Peter tensely squeezes his hands into fists once they can't be seen anymore, trying to hide his urge to leap across the basketball court and strangle the man in front of him.

"He comes for me at eleven fifty-five at night; five minutes to midnight." There's a deep, slow sigh that slips from Peter, and with the slouch of his shoulders it makes him look like he's deflating. His eyes flit to Gillian again, brow tensing for a moment, If he tries to hurt you, call the cell phone number I gave you. His psychic projection betrays his lack of trust in Sylar. I'll be there.

Despite his ability to put his voice in the minds of others, Sylar cannot pick up the same from others. He's too busy watching Peter to really take note of any reaction from Gillian, grim satisfaction in the fact that the other man seems to be having a hard a time as he is when it comes to not attacking. "I'm nothing if not punctual," he says, flatly. An address, then, is given - not their home address, but one within the Bronx all the same. "When the time comes make him chase you there," the killer instructs. "I'll be waiting and looking forward to it." And then, his stoic expression shifts into something more human, brow furrowing and a slight grimace pulling at his mouth, weight shifting from foot to foot. "We done here?"

"We'll both be there," Gillian adds in the same firm, determined voice as before. But she also nods in the direction of Peter— coupled with a grateful look when he said he didn't want to know where he lived. That'd been one of the things she tried to protect, why she made the meeting far from their current home, but still important and easy to find. The telepathy she's experienced before didn't go both ways, so she doesn't attempt to send anything back. Her thoughts say that she knows to call the number, and she's half arguing with herself over whether she'll need to call it. And repeating the time, as if that's being commited to memory. Five minutes to midnight. She glances at her watch again, pulling up her sleeve. Five minutes to midnight.

Peter looks to Sylar, unable to believe he's going through with this idea. But he can't risk the lives of his friends, the lives of everyone he cares for in this. He looks down to the ground, then up to Sylar again. There's a long, cold silence as a chill wind blows across the basketball court, picking up stray leaves and sending them fluttering across the pavement. In the silence, there is so mch tension between he and Sylar, with Gillian trapped squarely between them. But in the end, it all comes down to one sentence.

"We're done here."


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November 29th: Flint Deckard Saves The World
Previously in this storyline…
All Those Dark Things

Next in this storyline…
Not An Accident

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November 29th: Kisses and Queries
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