An Unwelcome Revelation


sierra_icon.gif wu-long_icon.gif

Scene Title An Unwelcome Revelation
Synopsis On prejudice.
Date November 6, 2008

Dorchester Towers: Ethan's Apartment

Dorchester Towers is home to many upper class, or more wealthier inhabitants. This apartment seems to be no exception. First impressions of this place, give a homey, and well furnished feel. Lamps are put in the right place, decorations here and there. The living room consists of a large green sofa facing the wall of windows, which has a large flatscreen TV in front of it. Speakers are installed all around for the Surround Sound feel. Next to the TV is a cabinet full of DVDs. Most of these movies include a gun of some sort in each of them. A small coffee table sits in front of the couch, a few magazines spread out on it.

The kitchen is well stocked, with a microwave, coffeemaker, and of course a toaster. There is an overhead pan rack hanging over the stove which has many pots, pans, and other utensils hanging from it for easy access. Three doors lead away from the kitchen and living room. Two are large, comfortable bedrooms, complete with posters on the walls, and one is a room that is furnished with a stand up punching bag, dumb bells, a treadmill, and other types of work out equipment.

For the -extremely- well trained eye, or for someone who knows what they're looking for it would be apparent that there are little things off about this apartment. Reinstalled panels, etc, that would suggest whoever lives here has done some renovation work. (Note:Ethan has 'toys' hidden throughout his apartment, in case of 'emergencies'.) Overall though, this spacious living area has been well taken care of, and kept very tidy.

It is coming into the evening, the sun has set, Sierra walks along the apartment slowly, as if memorizing it. She turns slightly pacing herself back to the kitchen and pries the fridge open, looking for the liquor she bought. It is found shortly and she moves the six pack of hard cider to the counter opening a bottle up. Apparently its one of those days where the rookie stayed home.

It's nice someone had. Wu-Long got tired of coming home to an empty apartment; might be why he's here instead of South America now, though certainly there were other factors. And here he comes, an inky shadow too fluid, too mobile, too impossibly dark to be a natural cast from the street lamps or the half-moon beaming brightly overhead. He comes through the kitchen window, as he's so often wont to do, sliding through the quarter-inch gap between painted wood slat and painted wood slat. Snags on the lip of the sink, coiling there like the specter of a child swinging his heels, before dropping to the floor.

He pulls into physical mass with a soundless ripple of energy and, abruptly, light is hitting tanned skin and a blood-tinged shirt. "Don't shoot," he requests.

Sierra is simply drinking, as she wonders what to do this evening. She draws a large drink from her bottle and then places it down. Wu is unnoticed, that is until he speaks, and she reacts fast, a gun comes up from nearby the girl, the steal barrel matted in her slender hand. Her breath caught in her throat, the gun is leveled onto Wu-longs head a deep steady, breath is held as her fingers curl up around the firearm "What the hell are you to be getting in here?" she asks "You're one of them aren't you?" she asks her voice emphasizes /them/ as she speaks.

The man wraps cold fingers around the buttons of his suit jacket, thumbs them out of their holes in motions only slightly blurred by fatigue. It's been a heavy two days, between five murders and a kidnapping. Fortunate, that he's used to operating on minimal rest and cruel conditions or he'd just sit on the kitchen floor and flop against the cabinets, the cuts in his back be damned.

He peels the outer garment off, revealing minute slashes in his shirt, blood-rimmed though nothing near critical; ditches it on the kitchen counter not far form from the sink. A backward motion, an easy backhand of his arm, minimal if not slow, so as not to elicit a panicky gunshot in the face. He's not invincible; he's wearing evidence of that. He studies the barrel pointed at him.

"I'm resigned to my fate, if that puts me in a better subcategory," he offers.

Conflict in the new ones eyes knowing you work close with wolf and Kazmir puts her hard pressed to really dispatch you. She stares hard and cold, as several emotions race through her at once. Hatred shines in her eyes and her fingers loosen on the firearm, it would be her hide if she were to try and kill him here, in Wolfs apartment. Shes forced to lower the gun and she turns slightly watching him. "I don't know any medicine, but I can help you a little.. if nothing else clean and dress them."

If Wu-Long's dark eyes could empty out more than they are, they would have. Instead, they watch her with the same quiescence as a black hole might watch Earth, a negative presence, an absence almost tangible in its extremity, magnifying by its mere proximity, everything else around it, leaving the bizarre and perhaps eerie conviction that the faucet, the dishwasher, the glasses in the cabinets, mass to and acknowledge Sierra more than the thing of flesh and scabbed blood staring at her across the kitchen does.

She pointed the gun away. He appreciated that. Which is probably why he turned the corners of his mouth up slightly. "I'd rather let Eileen do it," he states after a moment, matter of factly. "But if you could pour us some whisky, I want to ask you how your day went." His tone is as mild as the weather is tonight; gentler by far than the rain that lashed down on Jennifer Childs yesterday, the same rain she'd used to spear him and blast Sylar. He gestures at Sierra politely if without warmth.

Sierra struggles with servile emotions, turning away from Wu, she gives a sharp nod "And she knows you will be here?" she asks as she turns to retrieve the whisky. The sound of glasses can be heard as Sierra gets the bottles and things down for company. She was startled and angry … and a little pissed off to find out that he was an evolved just like that. The realization is one shes having a little trouble grasping.

The bottles of liquor are set on the nearby table with glasses, and she returns to her cider. "Well my day was pretty quiet today, Ethan wants me to assist him with a job soon, it will be my first". She admits this freely "I expect it will change me forever it will" she says her eyes fall upon her firearm and she runs her fingers through her hair lightly. She dose not apologize for drawing the gun on him, with the way he surprised her but she dose at least try to get beyond her years of festering hatred for the evolved. She watches him in silence her eyes not as intensely filled with the hatred.

He follows her out to the kitchen, reaching up to pull his ponytail free of its band. Inky curls loose around his shoulders and tickling raw-boned cheeks. Lazily, lazily, he lids his eyes as he pads across the floor, pulls himself up a chair. Politely: the legs don't scrape against the floor with any bald shriek of contact, no, there's only a gentle sussurration before he places himself neatly on his seat. He rests one hand on the table, palm-down, fingertips gently curled down against the smooth surface.

He waits until she's set the cup and bottles before pouring himself one. Offers to fill Sierra a cup as well, despite that she's already nursing one. "Do you know what the job is?" he asks. He articulates mild curiosity with a hitch of one eyebrow. "Have you ever done wet-work before?"

Sierra shakes her head "all i know is my training. Training and training and more training, Ive been a mule and a dog…" she says shaking her head slowly "but it is a chance I suppose". She watches him and she resists the urge to punch him , for just looking so god damned cute. She stares at him for a wild moment her eyes focused intensely upon him "you… put me in a strange mood" she says softly. Her eyes lift from him and she sips back her cider. Memories flicker across her mind and she shakes her head a little to clear them.

"Hrm?" she asks as she recalls herself back from the memory, "oh the job" she says then she nods "yah were after a family…I think its one of the un-Evolved ones…" she says quietly "it bothers me they have to die but for the greater good… some things need to be done no?" she asks quietly "I wish they were Evolved… it would be easier for me…" She shrugs.

Whisky goes down Wu-Long's throat smoothly as milk would have. No doubt, his liver's in as good a state as the next soldier who's ever been through Iraq. "I can tell," he answers after a moment, his shoulders loosening almost imperceptibly. Either the liquor taking effect, or a well-programmed monster's training kicking in, a skein of humanity easing over him like warmth seeps into the sky after sunrise.

Sierra isn't, after all, the only one who has been wrought as much by long study and harsh hands as by organic experiences. Though perhaps ironically, their — programming and original being were oddly inversed. "And that makes sense: you look like you'd rather hate me.

"I wish you luck on your first job. Less because it'll be hard: because it's a test." She knew that already, he's fairly certain; the crows feet deepen outside his eyes. He breaks the silence with a click-clink-click of the glass rocking in his hand, the meniscus of richly-colored alcohol seesawing, minute splashes, infinitesimal bubbles. Then: "What did we do to you?"

Sierra nods her head "well" she says quietly "I … would had rather thought you were normal. I wanted to ask you something, but now is not the time. Perhaps after my test 'ey?" she asks as she leans herself against the nearby counter her eyes drift to the guest couch. "Your friend, she should be here if she is coming soon," she says. "I need to sleep and all that." Her head inclines to the adjacent room. "I will hopefully see you again," she says.

"I might be able to survive that," Wu-Long answers after a moment, his accent furring his consonants over with the misplaced music of Mandarin. He looks up at her, his features quiescent and his back as straight as rebar: he doesn't touch the back of his chair, lest he leave stains. He doesn't press the inquiry. A certain common thread tends to bind those Non-Evolved who find themselves part of Kazimir's crusade. And that thread, when touched too hard, proves strong but fine enough to cut. "Rest well, xiao-jie. Light breakfast," he advises quietly.

November 6th: Connections
November 6th: Fire and Fury
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