Be Creative


deckard_icon.gif ethan_icon.gif sylar_icon.gif wu-long_icon.gif

Scene Title Be Creative
Synopsis Ethan, Sylar, and Wu-Long meet Flint to torture him just a little discuss a friendly business proposition. What nice people!
Date October 31, 2008


Though it's less than two miles square, Chinatown is home to some quarter of a million residents. Cramped, ancient tenements are the norm, though the fourty-four story Confucious Plaza standing at the corner of Bowery and Division does boast luxurious accommodations by comparison. Mulberry Street, Canal Street, and East Broadway are home to streetside green grocers and fishmongers, and Canal Street also boasts an impressive array of Chinese jewelry shops.

It's not too long after twelve in the morning that Flint Deckard would receive the call that his new customer would meet him at a particular parking garage in China Town in 45 minutes. So the gun runner would have to run.. To make it to the appointment on time. Though at that time, the customer would not be in sight. It's not like they had stuff to do, it's just good to make people wait. Let them know you're in charge, or just an asshole.

Ethan is in the driver seat of a black Lincoln Town and Country. Accompanying him are Wu Long, and their newest co-worker, Sylar. Ethan thought it best to include Sylar on a job, let him get used to how they operate, work together, maybe have bonding experiences. Who knows what shannanigans the three will embark upon. It's nearing two o clock and there aren't many people in the parking garage. Most are out or at work. And those who would be there, are in the lower levels, no one wants to walk all that way when there is no need. So the car lumbers up and up towards the roof, in no hurry though.

Ethan is dressed in a pinstripe suit and a blue dress shirt underneath. A pair of sunglasses to top it, he's looking -quite- professional today. They have a meeting with an arms dealer, and though they could become more permanent customers.. these three are more interested in dealing with information.

Seated in the back of the car is Sylar, keeping to himself. He's dressed, as isn't incredibly peculiar for him, all in black, in a woolen double-breasted coat, the collar of a black button-down beneath just visible. A tear in the right arm of his sleeve is the only thing that steals away from his own brand of professionalism - he's even wearing nice shoes. He's keeping quiet, it seems, allowing the two more experienced members of Kazimir's crew to take the lead - which is fine, it allows him to observe. Every now and then, he gaze falls upon with Ethan or Wu-Long, staring in a most impolite way, as if studying them, but now as they arrive at their destination, his attention moves to outside the car.

Though Wu-Long tends to prefer to stay in black as a matter of practicality and occasionally unhygenic living, he decided to try some more spontaneity after the Halloween masque went so well. Insofar as that he's donned a gray suit. His shirt, however, shows black beneath the jacket's straight, slatey panels, buttons the same, his inky hair lashed back into a ponytail, a pair of densely-framed glasses perched on a nose that most Chinese would consider generously-proportioned.

He'd called shotgun. Of course.

And returned the latest rookie's in the rearview mirror— only without rotating his eyes, mildly inquisitive about this personality variously-defined as Munin's post-adolescent love interest, Gillian's protector, and the Wolf's latest victim. For all intents and purposes, Sylar sports no physical evidence of being any of those things. He didn't speak much either. Debriefings are something to get out of the way before the seatbelt clicks.

Deckard is not a terribly busy guy, and he's hard to rush. He's five minutes late, and spends five more minutes arguing with the cabby who drops him off on the top of the parking garage roof. Eventually, he hands a few folded bills in through the driver's side window and the cab speeds off, leaving him alone save for a single ancient Buick near the back corner. It's cold, but not freezing, and bright lights on the street below mingle with the dull brown glow of the sky over head to keep visibility just above nil. Even so, Deckard's sporting a pair of sunglasses as black as his overcoat. Maybe he was on his way to a vampire cosplay. That totally seems like it would be his thing.

Gloved hands tucked deep into his pockets, he just stands there in the middle of the lot and waits. Patience is one of those virtues he apparently has despite all indications otherwise. His breath hangs thick in the air around him, lingering behind the lighter smoke of his cigarette by the time a dark car finally /does/ make its apperance. Attention turned immediately thataway, he performs the usual count of free hands and firearms. A kind of automatic assessment of all the neat ways he might be about to die.

Pulling up to the roof, Ethan immediately flicks on the high beams. No reason for him to see them yet. Coming a little closer the car slows to a halt. Placing it in park, Ethan looks to his right to his Chinese compatriot. "Could ye blind 'im please?" No use of fake accents today. He is completely Ethan. Opening the door and undoing his safety belt, the Brit gets out of the car, takes a moment to straighten his suit and breathes deeply. "Alright my son." Who this is targeted to is unclear. Reaching into his pocket Ethan pulls out a handkerchief.

Looking to Sylar, he motions with his head to Deckard. "Could you tie this around 'is face with your.." He twinkles his fingers at his head. "Voodoo. Wu Long blinds that 'ole area, not just 'im." And so Ethan tosses up the handkerchief.

Getting out of the passenger side, Wu Long does as ordered. Because he's nice, and Flint will soon find that there is nothing to see anymore. Or hear for that matter, his ears and eyes have temporarily ceased to work.

Sylar gets out of the car, again silent. The handkerchief is caught, and Sylar casts a quizzical look towards Wu-Long. He never did ask about his abilities, but that sounds intriguing. He frowns, just for a moment, at Ethan's request, but decides it's better to do as he says and simply see what happens. Almost in a whimsical fashion, the fabric floats up from his hand and dances on over as if caught in the wind - then, with a little more intent, it zips in to wrap around the man's face, Sylar stepping forward with a focused look on his face, hand stretched out to make sure the handkerchief does what it should, as the movements are reasonably intricate.

The headlights aren't registered. There's no flinching away from it, or even blinking behind the sunglasses. The absence of reaction there is nearly enough to insinuate some kind of blindness, but then…many things happen at once. Flint's head turns aside as if after a sound that is, in fact, the absence of sound, and…there's a blankie wrapped around his head, and sunglasses. Cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, Flint just stands there stiffly, hands held out slightly from his sides. New Yorkers are so fucking weird.

Holding up a hand, Wu-Long's affect stops. Ethan nods in approval as the man is blindfolded, no need for him to know their faces. Ethan walks towards the man, the headlights still on bright behind him. Raising a hand he motions the two other to follow him as he walks closer towards the man.

"Sorry bout that, just wanted to make you look like more of an idiot." Taking a moment the man looks him up and down. "Suits you." Comes the man's cockney accent. "So, eh.. What was your name again?"

This time, Wu-Long's eyes are focused on the work at hand, and that isn't mere superfice; Sylar's fallen out of his awareness, which has expanded to include the stark edges of the roof silhouetted against the dainty twinkle of the night-time firmament, the click and incessant grumble of nocturnal traffic below and, of course, signals from the Wolf. He remains in the vehicle with no evident plan to rise. His lean, gray-suited frame sits quiescent as a Buddha in the seat underneath the band of his seatbelt.

And follow Sylar does, glancing back towards where the beams of light seems to define the setting, almost, making everything else appear more shadowed than before. He stands still, a few feet from Ethan, and— what had Kazimir called him? A blunt instrument? He takes this role to heart, it seems, allowing the guy in the pinstripe suit to do the talking necessary, but otherwise, ready.

"You blindfolded me," Flint replies, helping Ethan right along with the whole looking-like-an-idiot thing. He sounds like his feelings are hurt. Meanwhile, his head turns back to the unfamiliar man's approach, seeing without seeing. Cloth over skin over muscle over bone, Ethan is stripped down one irritable layer at a time while the scruffy salesman checks him over. Behind the blind, his eyes rove with as little movement as possible, providing the illusion of a dim forward stare while his head stays stationary. Sylar is checked next, in the same fashion. Guns, knives, razors, bats, sex toys. If they have them, he'll see them. "Deckard."

Ethan is certainly armed, a pistol is on a holster around his chest, another gun strapped to his ankle. A switchblade is strapped to his wrist as well. However, the Wolf doesn't pat down Deckard. He doesn't need to. What with people like Wu-Long and Sylar behind you, if the man were suddenly to decide violence is the answer.. Well, Ethan wouldn't have much to worry about.

"Deckard." Is repeated as Ethan looks up at the sky for a moment. "Well Deckard, I do have to say I'm sorry we're late. I hope you don't hold it against us."

In contrast, Sylar is not armed, free of anything even vaguely deadly - free of anything at all, in fact, carrying nothing with him that isn't simply clothing. When you are the weapon, rarely do you have to carry any. His gaze remains steadfast on Deckard, and in the same sort of way, he checks him over - audio rather than visual, listening to his heart rate, the way he breathes. Nervousness, anger, anxiety - any of those things that can affect the way the body sounds.

"Not at all. I'm sure you're very busy running around the city putting blindfolds on people." Flint is annoyed, but that's clear in his tone as much as it is his heartrate. Anxiety is a more subtle presence, pinned in his chest by the tension there and about his shoulders where he's having to perform all the usual fight or flight overrides. Violence is so not the answer when dealing with people who might want to give you money. He holds out a hand about a foot to the right of where it should be. "Nice to meet you."

"Not exactly. But close." Ethan replies, eyeing the man. He doesn't shake the man's hand just yet. "Now. We've got to get down to business, be all quick and shit about that. But I need you to understand some very impor'ant points about me an' my friends 'ere." Ethan says, circling the man. He flicks a glance to Sylar every now and then to see if the other man has picked up anything he should know about. "We are the most dangerous and sadistic mother fuckers you will ever meet." The Brit says flatly, pausing behind him. "Now, with that said, do you believe me or do y'need a fuckin' demonstration for us to have an understanding?"

Sylar stays rather still, rather than joining in on Ethan's pacing - the less noise he himself makes, the better. He notices Ethan's glances towards him. An echo-y, smoother-toned version of his own voice drifts through Ethan's head. He's anxious, he reports, somewhat mildly - just offering the information to show he can. His mouth twists into a smirk at Ethan's words. I'll let you know if he believes you.

Deckard remains facing forward. His head turns a little when Ethan speaks from around back, and his hand falls back to his side, but that's about it. He's lost his cigarette somewhere between deafness and apparent blindness, leaving his breath to cloud over his shoulder without interruption. Then, something weird happens. At the threat, some of his anxiety ebbs away. Behind the blindfold, he rolls his eyes. Outwardly, he shifts his weight over onto one foot. "Ah…yeah. I mean. I believe you. I wouldn't be able to see a demonstration anyway. Because…you blindfolded me." It is possible that his stupidity is intentional, this time.

OOC NOTE: A few poses are missing, here. Basically, Ethan detects Flint's bullshit and quietly orders Sylar to pick him up. Which he does!

It's just like Peter Pan. Only much creepier and there's no dog.

Flint doesn't need to hear the whisper to see Sylar's response. His brows knit, but before he can make heads or tails of it, he's in the air. One hand goes instinctively to the pressure in his chest, and he manages a kind of strained grunt while one knee bends and straightens again. No ground back there either. Another wheeze, and he works his jaw, neck taut with strain. "I've seen enough movies to know I should probably be more specific, but. …Please put me down."

"We will pay you well, Deckard. I won't fuck with you. But I need to know that your loyalties come to me, first. You can do all the business you want, even with my enemies. Preferrably my enemies. But I need you to act in a way that shows me I am your number one customer." Ethan says with a flash of a smile, even though the man can't see it. He doesn't respond to his plead, and makes no indication for Sylar to release him just yet. "Your eyes and ears will work for me. Whatever information you gather, comes to me first. Keep your fuckin' ear to the ground and you'll be just fine. We'll be best of mates. But if you try to fuck me over.." Ethan glances to Sylar as if about to tell him to do something, but he shrugs a little bit. "Be creative" he whispers quietly, "Don't hurt him too much. Just make the point."

Be creative? That's a dangerous thing to tell someone like Sylar. He's caught in indecision for a moment, or maybe just temptation, before going a simple route - his hand clenches. Now, Flint's arms will be pinned to his sides, but that's not where the pain begins. It's in the way pressure suddenly comes down on his ribs, pushing inwards, enough that perhaps the man will find himself sporting bruises tomorrow. "Ever seen a man broken from the inside out?" he asks Deckard, with a tone of innocent curiousity. "I have."

A stone's throw away, a smile flares across Wu-Long's face, immaculate teeth exposed white against his sea-swarthy skin. In contrast, his eyes squint so narrow no white shows of them at all, pupils dilated against iris, black-on-dark, gleaming, razor, photo-receptors eating up the spectacle with something akin to greed. Ethan gives that order less frequently than you would imagine. 'Be creative.' At long last, the soldier reciprocates Sylar's interest, in silence, attentive, from across yards of asphalt and the hood of the car.

Sharper irritation accompanies the initial additional inconvenience of losing the use of his arms. His own fists clenched, Flint strains against the restraint in vain and lifts his face skyward. Also in vain. No stray meteorites condescend to land directly upon Sylar or Ethan. "You're going to have to be more specific. I see things, but I'm not CNN — hch." Yeah, hch. The pain starts, and his breath hitches sharply against the clench of his own ribs. Which, doesn't actually help. Nor does the increased pace of his panting, for that matter, plainly visible in the Thomas the Train style exhaust trail the wind is taking with it. "Once you've seen one I bet they're all the same."

Smirking a little bit, Ethan can't help but chuckle a little bit. He raises his hand and motions for Sylar to release him. "You're a funny fuck." The Brit says as he moves to take a seat on the hood of the car. Lounging and laughing while Deckard is getting manhandled like an ex-con's inflatible doll. "I don't need to be specific, Deckard. You tell me everything you know. Especially when you find Evolved.. or Pariah. I have a vested interest in them, and you're going to do your best to sell to them." Ethan states this fact as he breathes out steam into the bright headlights of the car. Neat affect.

Sylar doesn't let go right away, looking back towards Ethan, then up at the dangling armsdealer. Perhaps he waits too long, but just before Ethan might reprimand him or ask twice, Flint is let go - with a hint of energy, almost tossed back with a flick of the killer's hand rather than just simply dropped down to the concrete. His hands return behind his back, one hand clasping the other wrist.

"You're an asshole." Voice still hoarse against Sylar's grasp, Flint lolls his scruffy jaw down, nearly to his chest. All the better to eyeball his overachieving captor in the two or three seconds before he runs out of happy thoughts. There's a scuff while one of his heels seeks out purchase, and then a heavier thump when the rest of him hits the cold concrete on his back. Ow. He makes a half-hearted attempt to roll over on his side, only to decide to stay there for a minute while he feels over his ribs. Long fingers brush over the butt of his gun, and leave it be. He's not completely stupid. "You want me to spy on them and sell them guns?"

"How else are you gonna spy on 'em fucko?" Ethan asks, glaring down at the man. "If you can't sell to them, find some other way to get information. But if you want our business.. and your life." That is added as an afterthought. "You will give us what you know. Got it?" With that Ethan stands up, and looks to Wu-Long. "Am I forgetting anything?" He asks of the Chinese man as he rounds the car towards the drivers seat.

Wu-Long's answer comes in a gesture: a hand raised, thumb pressing against forefinger and middle, rubbing back and forth three times in the universal signal of 'money.' Poor fellow deserves a hug, or a reasonable fiscal representation thereof. No matter how well he respects Kazimir's fervent ideology and Ethan's word-of-mouth advertising, really, that's just the advertising. Last he recalled, they had come here to settle with tangible goods.

Call it a favour, because Sylar extends out a hand - Flint will find himself pulled to his feet by his own arm. If it wasn't for the armsdealer's own special talents, it might almost seem like he was lifted to his feet the mundane way. But no, Sylar stays his several feet away. The deed done, he pushes his hands back into his pockets, and glances towards Ethan. His expression is unreadable, but there is a hint of— something, there. He's certainly not looking for praise, or giving it. He turns to move back towards the car.

Weird. Balance is hard to check when you don't know when or where an invisible force is actually going to stop, but Flint manages not to fall over again despite going half a step too far. He just lifts his brows in reply to Ethan's first question, and rolls a shoulder back at the second. It didn't pop out of its socket or anything when he fell, so. That's a plus. Wu-Long gets a glance, as invisible as all the looks that have gone before it, and Flint nods. Yeah, he's got it.

Opening the drivers seat, Ethan takes a seat. In the same motion he reaches into his pocket once again, this time he pulls out a card and a fat clip of dolla-dolla bills. The card has a single phone number on it and nothing else. The money clip and the card are dropped to the ground outside of the car. "We'll be in contact, my son!" With that the door shuts quickly, and once Sylar is in, the car goes into reverse.

Rumpled, damp, dirty and sore, Flint turns his head to watch them go. He doesn't pace for the money or snap the blindfold off until the rumble of their engine has faded, leaving him to wrap the latter carefully around the former before he tucks the wad down into his pocket. "Assholes."

The Asian man adjusts his glasses in the rearview mirror, disguising a brief meeting with Deckard's eyes in the glass with a moment of vanity, noting that the white boy takes the cash, before the reflection swoops and swivels out of sight. He settles back. Listens to the smooth grumble of mechanics and immaculate suspension. "He doesn't like being told what to do," he remarks aloud, his voice as light as his accent. "But I think it will work out."

The door shuts sharply behind Sylar, and he settles into his seat, no longer watching what Deckard does now as he stares out the window. There's a sort of sullen silence about his demeanor, or perhaps just a thoughtful one, and he doesn't add to what Wu has to say. As an afterthought, he clicks his safety belt into place like a proper citizen.

Vrooom. The car goes away.

I'm missing a couple of poses from this log. If you happen to have them, feel free to slap them up there or paste them to me and I'll do it. Sorry!

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October 31st: Pronouns
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