Participants:
| Scene Title | A Poisoned Morsel |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Sylar happens across another Evolved. Events don't quite proceed as usual. |
| Date | October 5, 2008 |
Though it is situated on a busy portion of Broome Street, the Guan Gong Temple is a place of incomparable peace and serenity. It has been well kept through the years, and there are several exquisite works of Chinese art housed within. Stairs on either side of the common room lead up to a lofted dining area that's set for roughly a dozen. Carved woodwork and lovingly tended plant life makes up much of the decor here, as well as in the modest kitchen and living quarters.
It's hard to move purposely through a place such as this, and so his pace slows to a wander. Despite the constant sound of city life — even New York's brand of city life - there's something quiet about the temple that's beyond sound. For a man who can hear a cockroach skitter a few blocks away, this isn't such a bad place to be, because really, there are a lot of cockroaches in this city.
Sylar's dark, heavy coat hangs open, revealing only more dark clothes beneath it as he moves into the courtyard-like area just outside the temple. A look is cast around the nighttime setting, then up towards the especially planted trees. A breeze rustles them delicately, and he tilts his head. Rather abruptly, the branches shake more violently - not due to any wind that blows through, but it looks like it. He ends his playing abruptly, turning his head. He's heard something — he usually does, of course, but this time, he listens.
The listening is met with the sound of footsteps, the light brush of sandal-soles against concrete, carrying someone who is not heavily built. A girl, no more than a teen, dressed in a long-sleeved dark brown shirt and blue jeans, crimson scarf draped about her neck and shoulders. The fringe dangling from one end flutters in the evening breeze. Tamara slows, aware of Sylar's presence, his attention; regarding him not quite directly, caution in her demeanor — but not much concern. In fact, she offers the psychopath a polite smile, before bending to pick up a twig-end snapped off by Sylar's power use, straightening out its leaves.
Hard not to be aware of Sylar's attention, because it has zeroed in on the girl, watching as she moves through the courtyard to pick up the twig. He doesn't seem surprised — then again, he heard her heartbeat before the footfalls, but all the same, perhaps he followed her here. Her polite smile is returned, and it's when her attention falls away from him that he speaks up, looking back up at the branches he had toyed with. "It's late," he says. "Don't you think it's stupid for young girls to be wandering around?"
Blue eyes lift to Sylar as he speaks, the teen rising and turning to face him. She holds the twig between her hands as she might hold a flower, spinning it idly in her fingers. "The mirror generally wasn't stupid. But maybe I am." Tamara tilts her head, blinking once. "Should you be?"
"Should I be?" Sylar repeats, keeping his eyes trained away from the teenager for now. He's never been to this temple before, after all. Why not take in the serenity. If the last two years have taught anyone anything, it's that peace can be snatched away in the time it takes to draw breath. In the tick of a clock. "I can go wherever I want." The branches start to rustle again, as if he's taking up this space as much as he can. The twig in Tamara's hands starts to tug at her grip as if caught in a sudden gust of wind that can't be felt. "Mirror?" he asks, looking back at her.
As Sylar turns his gaze elsewhere, if not his attention, Tamara resumes her winding walk through the trees, drifting, taking in the atmosphere of the temple grounds in her own way. "Silvered glass and still water. Except it never really is — always moving." Like the girl herself, it seems. "Like the trees," she continues, looking up at the rustling leaves. "I guess they have a lot to say tonight." The twig is transferred to one hand, which is extended to Sylar and then spread flat — releasing the bit of tree, should he continue to pull at it.
The twig promptly dances off her hand, tumbling as it should towards the ground. But it can barely brush the ground before it's swept up again, and there is something whimsical by the way it twists and floats through the mock-wind until Sylar extends a hand to catch it. All the while, now, he's watching her, as if trying to gauge out her reaction - but more accurately, he's studying her in the only way he can. Around them, leaves clap together as they shake, and wood even begins to creak. "Unless someone's making them talk," Sylar states, absently pulling the leaves off the twig he took back. "Is that all you can do? See mirrors?" He doesn't sound impressed, despite the fact that it sounds as those they're talking a separate language.
Watching the twig dance through the air, Tamara smiles — though the expression doesn't quite reach her eyes, which squint in what may be concentration or strain. Without the bit of wood to hold, she folds her hands before her waist. "No, Sylar." They are speaking different languages, but the correction is a gentle one. For all that the consequences of it probably won't be. "You see mirrors. The mirror sees." A beat. "When it isn't broken," the girl allows.
These days, there are only a handful of people that know that name, and after knowing that name… they typically know more. Sylar's eyes narrow, and he lifts a hand. The trees stop shaking. His fingers twitch a little, as if caught in indecision, and it's almost like the jaws of a dog clamped down on some tiny little creature pause in consideration, unsure of whether to release or to bite down. A decision hasn't completely been reached, even as Tamara will feel herself pushed back, invisibly, against the tree just a few feet behind her. It's a warning, a tightening of those metaphorical jaws — he's just showing off his teeth. "How do you know my name?" he asks, in a low tone.
The jaws, though invisible, are somehow not unexpected; where most would struggle in fear, surprise, and futile effort to pry themselves loose, in holding Tamara, Sylar might as well be holding that stick. Except that sticks do not breathe, do not have a pulse — and neither of those express fear on the part of the girl. Tension, anxiety, yes — this path definitely includes risk — but the panic is missing. "It's your name," she states. "It belongs to your shadows. Sometimes they said it. Sometimes it's said to them." A shrug of her shoulders, so much as Sylar's telekinetic grip allows. "Harder not to hear."
As she speaks, Sylar steps closer and closer until he fairly looms over the girl. She's special, that much is clear to him, but the way she speaks, talks — there's more to it, unless she's deliberately speaking in riddles. He keeps her pinned — her body, her legs, her arms have a touch more freedom, but notably, her head is fixed in place, turned upwards, and his gaze dances up towards her hairline. "It's pathetic," he murmurs, almost at a whisper, "the way some people let their abilities own them." His gaze moves down to her eyes. "It broke this city, and it's broken you." Abruptly, she's released, and disappointment is clear in his expression.
For all that he looms, menaces, perhaps considers fell deeds — she simply waits. And the waiting is rewarded when Tamara is released. She settles her weight on her feet, but otherwise remains in place — it's as good a spot to stand as any. "Some could not be owned," she replies, just as softly. Her gaze focuses somewhere beyond Sylar, if it focuses at all; the pupils dilated just a bit further than the lighting supports, giving them the illusion of darkness. "Not many," the teen continues. "But a few horses were really tigers." Her lips curve slightly, expression wry, and Tamara's focus returns to her companion, though her gaze remains that bit fey. "Would you have everything be the same?"
"Why would I want a thing like that?" Sylar asks, flatly. Certainly no peace to be found in the temple tonight — no violence, either, but the continual riddles and the uncertainty over wanting to take something that is simultaneously intriguing and repulsive… It's like being tempted with some morsel of food he knows is poisoned. "Do you ever listen to yourself speak?" he fires back at her, in a way that sounds like he doesn't expect an answer — as he's otherwise backing up, moving for the way out.
At Sylar's response, Tamara smiles. And when he begins to retreat, she turns away, walking in the opposite direction, deeper into the temple grounds. Letting him withdraw. "The mirror always listens. But the words lie beneath the waterfall." Her voice subsides, giving way to other sounds — the swish of sandaled feet in the grass, the rasp of cloth against cloth, the susurrus of moving air and disturbed leaves.
 October 5th: Nice to Meet You Again |
 October 6th: Fear No Evil |