Participants:
| Scene Title | Display |
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| Synopsis | I often think about the world in which we live today, of animals, and plants, and nature's gifts sat on display. But the most amazing thing that I've seen in my time are all the different people, and all their different minds. And different ways. |
| Date | November 18, 2008 |
Staten Island - Boat Graveyard
Exactly where land gives way to water at this point of the island's edge is uncertain - first because of the saltgrass growing everywhere, both on dry earth and in the shallows, giving the illusion of solidarity; second for the structures visible in the distance, drawing the eye away from the deceptive ground, suggesting its reach extends beyond its grasp. Even if the structures are still recognizable as ships, and nothing that ever belonged on land.
There are a multitude of them, abandoned hulls of salt-stained wood and rust-pitted steel, dying slow and ungraceful deaths as wind and water claim their dues. Some still appear to rest upright, braced upon the debris of older, lost relics below; others list to one side, canted at an odd angle like someone who just struggled to the surface in search of a desperate breath. There are no hands to pull these hulks from the water, no ropes to save them from drowning; each has been surrendered to the sea, left to the ravages of unmerciful time.
At low tide, some of the closer ships can be reached - not without getting soaked, but such is the price of daring. Never mind that the rotting metal and splintered wood are the stuff of nightmares for any germophobe, definite hazards to the unwary. The more distant ships are distant indeed, beyond the reach of all but the most bold - and are all but submerged besides.
There are a few reasons Sylar has lead Odessa out here. For one, it's, these days, usually devoid of people, devoid of traffic and energy that even the more desolate parts of Manhattan boasts. He doesn't have to change his shape to come here. For another, the constant sound of ships and boats slowly, slowly breaking down and dying is bizarrely beautiful to his ears. Better than the hum of cars, although even that is a distant buzz beneath the creaks and groans of rusted metal in water.
He explains this, in his own way, as they walk down through the saltgrass, guiding her so that she doesn't end up stepping into terrain more water than ground. Out on the ships as well as closer to the shore, seabirds squawk and add their own notes to a mostly unheard symphony. Some begin to wheel overhead, as if giving their own guidance to the two Evolved.
"Aside from the occasional tourist," Sylar is saying, pulling his black woolen coat around him tighter, "there's enough wreckage in this city that I don't think anyone cares about this place anymore."
"I can't imagine why," Odessa murmurs quietly, eyes large as she takes in her surroundings, stepping carefully and occasionally reaching out to grab her companion's arm when her footing is less than sure. "It's beautiful out here." In its own way. She stops for a moment to stare out at the water and its decrepit contents. "Do you like to swim, Sylar?" Not that she's suggesting either of them swim here. For one thing, it's cold. And another, it's not the idea sort of locale for swimming. "I've always wondered what it'd be like to swim in a lake. Or the ocean. Don't reckon I'll be doing either of those things for a while, but the thoughts are nice." She falls silent for a long moment, staring at the way the water laps against the wrecks of rusted metal and broken hulls.
"Winter isn't good for swimming," Sylar agrees, coming to a halt when Odessa does. Despite the damp surroundings, the air is dry, crisp, cold like the morning shoulder be, and wind ruffles hair and clothes as if affectionate. There's certainly a welcoming kind of aura to this place, as forbidding as it seems. Sylar slides his hands into his pockets. "There'll be snow soon, though. You'll see. But I guess even that won't make it worth it." He begins to walk again. "You don't like it much outside the walls, do you, Odessa."
A small smile touches the corners of Odessa's mouth as he echoes her assessment, and widens when he mentions the coming of snow. "No, you misunderstand me. It's an adjustment, but I'd never give it up. This world, as broken as it is, is beautiful." She turns her gaze on the man's face now, giving that smile to him. "I am so grateful that you've… given this all to me. I don't know what I would have done or where I would have gone if you hadn't found me and," let's be honest, "taken pity on me. Thank you."
He pauses at that, thoughtfulness written over expressive features, glancing down to where his feet disappear in knee high saltgrass. "I don't think it was pity," Sylar says, and out here, there don't seem any games to be played. Sylar has the rare talent of being an excellent impersonator and simultaneously a rather bad liar when he's being himself. "I think I wanted to see what would happen," and he looks back at her, "if I brought you into the Vanguard. If they would accept you just because I said they should."
"Was it everything you hoped it would be?" There's a hint of amusement to Odessa's words. She has no illusions as to why he chose to bring her along. It isn't because he's particularly fond of her. They aren't friends. But she's as intriguing to him as he is to her, and that's enough.
He chuckles ruefully. "I didn't think he would cut your throat," Sylar says, with a slight shrug. "I didn't even think he would consider killing you." A gull of some kind swoops down low, close enough brush a wing tip against the sleeve of his coat, past Odessa by just a few inches, before wheeling around them once and heading back out to perch on a submerged hull of a ghost ship, Sylar drawn to staring after it.
Odessa finds herself absently touching the wound at her throat, the smile and amusement drained from her eyes. She can't blame Sylar for it. It wasn't his fault. Her eyes are likewise drawn to the bird the swoops past. "Do they usually get so close?"
"No," Sylar says, a little flatly. The bird seems to have all but forgotten them, and so he looks back at Odessa, seemingly unperturbed. "Not usually. Let's keep walking." And so they walk. If there's anything different about Sylar, it seems to be, perhaps, a lack of cruel barbs sent her way - but perhaps the conversation hasn't yet brought it out of the killer. "Do you remember what the Company knows about what I can do?" he asks. "If they ever kept a record, no one told me."
"You can do a lot of amazing things," Odessa responds blithely. "I know how you acquire your abilities, obviously. Read that in your file. I know about some of what you've acquired. I've never quite believed what they said about you walking on water, though." She tilts her head out toward the graveyard of ships with a grin, "Unless you'd care to prove me wrong." She continues on her stroll, however, kidding aside. "They keep files on everyone. Even me. Some are simply more classified than others." She reaches back to scratch her neck beneath her hair. "Why?"
"I'm wondering what I could do that would surprise you," Sylar readily admits. "But I suppose your people have records on all of my kills, and you always did seem… interested. You've probably read all about them." As they walk, he draws a hand out of his pocket, splaying out his fingers - weak, needle-fine beams of green-blue light flicker out from each one, not cutting anything, however, as he keeps the intensity low. "And you're intimately acquainted with this one."
Odessa's steps falter as the little beams of light dance from his fingertips. "Forgive me if I wasn't paying close attention before." She reaches out as if to touch, but stops herself. "Reading isn't the same as seeing," she tells him, glancing up to meet his eyes. "I've read about the world, and it wasn't enough. I want to see it for myself. I want to see it all." Every last ability. "Is it wrong of me? To be interested, I mean. You're possibly the most fascinating creature I've ever met. Arguably, by far, more interesting than Peter Petrelli." And far less frustrating, in her opinion.
After a moment, the rays of energy flicker out, and Sylar closes his fist. "It's not wrong of you," he says, looking back at her. "Far from wrong. And of course I am, Peter Petrelli barely even understands the power he's capable of. Some of us actually deserve it." And there's a fwoomf, Sylar holding his hand out, which glows radioactive orange from the bones and out. Slowly, a ball of light forms at the center of his palm. Containing what Peter could not. "Don't touch," he warns her, just in case.
Odessa's eyes widen at the new display. "Is that…?" She does, in fact, make a move to reach out until he warns her, only then registering which ability he's displaying. "Does it hurt?" she asks quietly, concern in her features. "I can't decide if it looks like it hurts, or if it just looks warm."
"It might hurt," Sylar says, sustaining the show of power, although it steals his concentration. "It hurts if you let it go. Peter sure did seem to be in a lot of pain when he blew the city to hell. It feels…" He tilts his head to the side. "Tingly." Yes, tingly. He closes his fist again, the ball of radiation disappearing in a poisonous flicker, the glow withdrawing back into his body.
Odessa's gaze flickers between where the glow once was and the man's eyes. "I went to see the ruins…" She holds those wavering eyes steady now, refusing to be ashamed of herself for her next admission. "I cried. You never would have let that happen to all those people. How can a man who claims to be so decent shuffle the blame to someone who doesn't deserve it?"
Sylar's hand lowers back down to his side, and silence descends upon them both, as tangible as the wind that blows cold off the water. "What if I told you it was my intention?" he asks, smoothly. "What if I told you I thought that was meant to be me, out there, the one that creates those ruins? Would you hate me?" He seems honestly curious.
"But you didn't," is the only reply Odessa can formulate after several quiet moments of deliberation. Covert floundering. "Why would you want to do something like that?" It's something she can't fathom. Everyone has to have a reason for their actions, and Doctor Knutson is having difficulty finding the reason here. There was no reason for what happened, though. It was a tragic accident that Peter lost control. So why would Sylar have done it with intent?
"I didn't, not at first," Sylar says, looking from her towards the shipwrecks, mostly because he finds it far easier to watch them when he replays these things in his head, sometimes even speaks out loud. "But I painted the future and thought it was mine. No one would… help me." And back to Odessa, to see if she's understanding this. "So I accepted it. I took Ted Sprague's power, knowing what it could do."
"You painted Petrelli's future and thought it was meant as your destiny?" Odessa reaches out to cup one side of Sylar's face in her pale, ungloved hand. Her skin is cold against his cheek, but she's hoping the gesture is warm enough to make up for it. "You haven't changed much at all, have you? You're just looking for a destiny to chase, when you could be making your own." It isn't pity in her eyes, but it's a sad sort of understanding. "I don't mean to be presumptuous… But, you feel like you're lost? Adrift?" She smiles faintly, "Am I close? I'm no Doctor Kenneth or Salonga. I'm not necessarily the best at reading people, but…" Her eyes narrow just faintly, uncertain now that she's spoken out of turn.
Destiny at the costs of so many deaths. Not just thousands this time. Millions. Billions. Major cities turned to ghost towns with swinging saloon doors and tumbleweeds. Metaphorically speaking. "Who doesn't want to be special some day?" Sylar asks, defense in his tone, and he pulls away. Ruffled. But not really by the blonde looking up at him. "Come on," he says, a forced element in his voice. "Let me show more things I can do. You know I can read from the hull of that ship right out there?" He points, to indicate. "The one furthest out."
"What's the point of being special if you're locked away underground?" Odessa lets the subject drop, though, and turns to squint. "No way! That's a new one since the last update on your file." She leans forward a little, as though it will make the words come into focus. "That's amazing. You can really read that?"
That first part forces Sylar to glance at her, but then, he's happy to leave behind this topic too when she enthuses over his ability. "I can. I'd tell you what it is but it's not like I could prove it. I can't really walk on water. Here," he says, then concentrates. Nothing at all happens, it seems, and he shakes his head a little. "It takes a minute." And the air around them seems to become… clingier, skin clammy but not from sweat. Lurking through the saltgrass, a fine, warm mist starts to develop.
The woman drops to a crouch to be closer to the source of the mist. "Whoa," she breathes out in astonishment. "That's—" She glances up and smiles brightly. "I'm going to run out of adjectives!"
Sylar gives her an almost uncertain smile at that, the mist becoming thicker in their immediate vicinity, cool and warm simultaneously very much like that of a butterfly house. The air smells even thicker of ocean and rust, and quicker than it came, the fine mist fades away - not without leaving droplets on their skin, clothes and hair. "You'd be surprised how many uses I can find for that one," he says. "I think it will be even handier when I get hydrokinesis."
Odessa rises back to her full height again, impressed obviously. "You make it look so effortless. I wish I could do a fraction of what you can do." She turns her gaze back toward the ships and their slow decay, "I suppose I shouldn't complain. What I do is enough to be considered… I don't know. It should be enough." She turns back again to echo his own words back to him, if only partially, "Who doesn't want to be special?"
"No one," Sylar answers, easily. Maybe that's why they all have to die. Who knows? "I wish you could hear them too," he says, following her gaze out towards the ships. A moment later, he lifts his hands, arms gently outstretched, and he concentrates, even shuts his eyes. At first, nothing happens.
Then, the subtle waves that lap at the saltgrass become exaggerated, as if disturbed by something - as if a monster slowly rising from the depths of the further out ocean were changing the tide. Nothing so dramatic, however, but slowly, the groans of the dying ships become louder, audible to Odessa's ears. It's not a new ability. It's a very old one, in fact, and if you're observant, you can see the ships very gently sway, tugged at and pushed at by a powerful outreaching grasp of telekinesis that moves them gently. Just enough to emphasise their death. Birds take flight off the gently moving ships, and the air fills with groans, water.
In the distance, something falls apart with a clatter, and it's only then that he releases them with an intake of breath. The sounds take a while to die down, nothing immediate stilled, but within a few moments, the silence dawns once more.
The display, while being that of an ability she was already aware he had, does not fail to take Odessa's breath away. She stands in the saltgrass with a hand over the swell of her chest as she takes in a deep gulp of air once she remembers to breathe again. "Sylar," she whispers only once the silence's reign must be broken once more. "Gosh." She turns another bright smile on him, warmer than the breeze about them that chills the droplets of moisture on their skin. "That was one of the… coolest things I have ever seen. Probably the coolest."
"I'm glad," Sylar says, hands lowering back down. "Glad that you liked it." If possible, he seems a little taxed, having pushed himself. It's one thing to flip a driving truck. It's quite another to shift so many unmoving objects all at once, at such a distance. Infallible. That's what he wants to appear to be, so he offers no complaints. "We should probably head back. Unless you wanted to contribute to this morning's show-and-tell."
Odessa smile turns to something of a slow smirk as she backs away a few steps. "As a matter of fact, I would." She scrutinises the many-abilitied man for a moment. "Do you have a preferred projectile ability? Or do you prefer to just throw things?"
Okay what. Sylar honestly didn't expect her to agree, although his attempt at enticing her hadn't been completely rhetorical. Maybe he just knows her better than he'd care to admit. Projectile ability. For all his power, he doesn't have many - but what he can do is devastating. He brings his hands together, and with that familiar sound, part-flame, part-explosion, his hands glow again with radioactivity, making the sleeves of his coat start to singe. "Ready when you are," he says, keeping the energy contained.
Odessa shakes her arms out at her sides, taking in a slow deep breath. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five is a good number. She rubs her hands together and breathes on them to warm up the tips of her fingers. Finally, once this ritual, one that really wouldn't look out of place performed on a pitcher's mound, is complete, she nods her head. "If I fuck this up, don't tell them I died failing to properly show off my ability." Her fingers clench into fists at about waist level and she waits, more than just a little nervous. "Okay. Hit me."
Sylar raises an eyebrow - but really, that's all the hesitation there is. Either he trusts her to know what she's doing and he wants very much to see the outcome, or, well. He's not thinking much further than that. In any case, the sound of an explosion makes more birds take flight - a pillar of billowing radiation pours from his hands, a fireball that's more light than flame, casting sickly orange and white and burning saltgrass.
Odessa's fingers splay as though to catch the ball of radiation in her hands, but it instead stops somewhere in between them. Held in place and frozen to all the world, a glowing ball of impossible energy. Behind the blazing light of it, which doesn't dance across her features as one might expect, Odessa's look of terror fades slowly to a smile that captures and claims her face. "I did it!" she proclaims.
As soon as the radiation erupts from his hands, the glow from his hands ends, Sylar taking a step back as the blast trails off towards Odessa— and stops. Sylar's mouth opens, but nothing comes out. In crunching strides through the grass, he moves around to get a better look, giving the frozen ball of energy a wide birth, eyes fixed on the glow that doesn't shift around like it should. Then, he smiles, like he's just seen dinosaurs for the first time. "What did… Is it still dangerous like this?" He takes a step forward, as if wishing to touch it.
"I… wouldn't," Odessa advises. "I've frozen knives before and the blades are still sharp. I wouldn't trust it entirely. I'd hate to see you hurt." She steps away from the path of the ball of radioactive energy and stands beside Sylar with a hopeful expression. "Pretty neat, huh? And that's only part of what I'm capable of."
"It's amazing," Sylar states, unshy about telling her so, and withdrawing his outstretched hand when she warns him away. A few seconds pass as he simply stares at the captured light - then, he grips her arm, and moves them both— into the path of the frozen explosion. As if anticipating her protests, he says, "It's okay, we won't get hurt. I have something else I can show you. Can you unfreeze it when I say go?"
Amazing. He said she (or at least her ability) was amazing. The approval brightens the girl almost as much as the eerie, unshifting glow of the radiation cast upon their skin. It's safe to say that Odessa trusts Sylar's ability to protect her from his own ability more than she trusts herself, and so she shuts her mouth before she can protest once he's assured her. All the same, she shrinks behind him just a little and flashes him one curious, if mildly apprehensive look. "Yeah. I can let it free again. Whenever you say."
Odessa's fingers splay as though to catch the ball of radiation in her hands, but it instead stops somewhere in between them. Held in place and frozen to all the world, a glowing ball of impossible energy. Behind the blazing light of it, which doesn't dance across her features as one might expect, Odessa's look of terror fades slowly to a smile that captures and claims her face. "I did it!" she proclaims.
As soon as the radiation erupts from his hands, the glow from his hands ends, Sylar taking a step back as the blast trails off towards Odessa— and stops. Sylar's mouth opens, but nothing comes out. In crunching strides through the grass, he moves around to get a better look, giving the frozen ball of energy a wide birth, eyes fixed on the glow that doesn't shift around like it should. Then, he smiles, like he's just seen dinosaurs for the first time. "What did… Is it still dangerous like this?" He takes a step forward, as if wishing to touch it.
"I… wouldn't," Odessa advises. "I've frozen knives before and the blades are still sharp. I wouldn't trust it entirely. I'd hate to see you hurt." She steps away from the path of the ball of radioactive energy and stands beside Sylar with a hopeful expression. "Pretty neat, huh? And that's only part of what I'm capable of."
"It's amazing," Sylar states, unshy about telling her so, and withdrawing his outstretched hand when she warns him away. A few seconds pass as he simply stares at the captured light - then, he grips her arm, and moves them both— into the path of the frozen explosion. As if anticipating her protests, he says, "It's okay, we won't get hurt. I have something else I can show you. Can you unfreeze it when I say go?"
Amazing. He said she (or at least her ability) was amazing. The approval brightens the girl almost as much as the eerie, unshifting glow of the radiation cast upon their skin. It's safe to say that Odessa trusts Sylar's ability to protect her from his own ability more than she trusts herself, and so she shuts her mouth before she can protest once he's assured her. All the same, she shrinks behind him just a little and flashes him one curious, if mildly apprehensive look. "Yeah. I can let it free again. Whenever you say."
Sylar just nods once, a hand reaching out to urge her partially behind his back. Not that there's anything to worry about, right? Right. He considers cheating, activating the ability before she can release the thing, but what would that prove? "Go."
Odessa turns her focus onto the captured energy and suddenly it's in motion again. Oh, God. He had better be right about this. She balls her hands into fists and braces, even though no amount of bracing would ever make an impact from that roll off a person.
Sylar throws his arm up, as if to shield himself from the blast, although much like Odessa's bracing, it would be completely useless against that much heat. But it's a literal shield, flickering into form moments before the blast can hit them. A curving circle of intense white light webbing over a telekinetic surface creates a shield with the radius of about one foot, and Sylar staggers back, knocking into Odessa just a little as the force of radiation hits the contained forcefield. With nothing behind it to back up or reinforce its power, the radiation blast ends as the momentum ends, the shield flickering back out of existence once it's over. It all happens in the space of a second.
Odessa's hands fly up to rest against Sylar's back as he bumps into her, hoping it lends strength even in a figurative sense. Not that he needs any of her strength. "Wow," she whispers when it's over. "I take it back. That's the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my entire life." She circles around so she can peer up at his face, "Doesn't all of that ever drain you?"
Sylar, who was watching the space the blast had formerly been frozen in, lets his gaze dip back down to meet Odessa's eyes. "Only if I exert myself," he says. "Some abilities are harder than others." He tilts his head - an indication to walk back the way they came, leaving behind the streak of black burned grass from their playing. "It was how the Company found me. I used that ability to protect myself from the bomb but it was a lot. I went into a coma for a while and woke up in a cage."
"I'm sorry," Odessa offers quietly. She may not have had any part in the initial capture, but she did take part in his captivity. "Everything in time, right? It brought you to this moment… with me." Is she… blushing? Must be the cold. "Sometimes my ability takes a lot out of me. It depends on what I try to do with it. If I'd tried to simply put up a barrier against the blast like you just did? That would have been a lot harder. Color me impressed."
Sylar looks down at her, a quizzical expression twisting his mouth into a frown. Create a shield? Stop a fireball? Maybe the less he knows, the better. The sorry, though… he wasn't even reaching for it. "I'm glad what I can do seems more interesting when it's not under a microscope and behind glass," he says, watching the way his feet bends the grass before him, clearing a path preemptively as they move from the waterfront.
"You were always more interesting off the medication. You turned that nurse into paste." Odessa pauses and tips her head to one side, "Did they let you keep that memory? I'm sure they did." To her knowledge, no one ever attempted to take a memory away from Sylar. Why bother when they're supposed to be a lifer? "Do you ever wonder… why they banished me down there?" Her tone has lost the enthusiasm from their playdate. "Sometimes, I wonder if I was just a monster… Like them." Not like you. "After the things I've done since joining you out here - joining the Vanguard - sometimes I wonder if I was locked away down there for a reason. Maybe I'm a killer. Maybe it's in me. Maybe… Maybe I'm unforgiveable." She stops now, regardless of whether Sylar continues on without her.
Reminiscing about times in the Company, doctor and patient. Prisoner. That applies to both of them, in different ways. Sylar just nods once when she asks him about the memory - he recalls everything. And then he listens as she speculates, and walks only a couple of feet when she stops, pausing to turn back to her. The overcast skies are lightening up gradually as morning brightens. "Maybe you are," Sylar agrees. "Maybe they never broke you - they found you broken instead, fixed you, gave you purpose so you wouldn't have to wind up in a box of cement and glass like I did. Maybe we're undoing all their careful work." He shakes his head, once. "Maybe not. Don't feel guilt over something you don't even know. Believe me, memories are worse."
"Purpose," Odessa repeats numbly, staring down at her feet, high heels sinking into the ground slowly. "What's my purpose now? I've tried to tell myself that my purpose is to help you, but… you don't need my help, do you?" The truth stings almost physically and it shows on her face. She leaves that thought how, however. She doesn't need confirmation. "Why did I cry for the dead in Midtown, only to kill more hours later? I felt no remorse for them. How are they different?"
Why do people cry at all? Mourning the dead is not something of a specialty for Sylar - it'd be hypocritical, considering mere moments ago, they were playing with the toys of dead men and women, and smiling as they did so. "Self-preservation," he finally answers, but the look he gives her is one bordering on apology because… he doesn't know. "On one hand you can remind yourself you have a soul, and on the other, you do what you have to do to survive." Vanguard is a little do-or-die that way.
A low, mournful whimper escapes Odessa's lips as she balls her hands together into small fists, smacking them against her forehead. The bumps of the knuckles on her thumbs cause her to wince, but that's the point. "I'm so broken," she wails. "I thought if I just got away everything would start making sense! But it's just more complicated." Her hands fall to the sides, fists opening again in a fit of self-inflicted frustration. There's an eerie sort of sound that follows, seeming to match the yard of dead vessels, and it takes Sylar a moment to realize — It's the echoes of a scream dying off, as though he'd come in to the middle of it. The girl stands still, taking deep gasping breaths in the effort it takes not to cry. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine," she insists. But to whom?
"No, you're not fine," Sylar says, head tilting to the side for a moment when that unusual echo fades out with only a little more gradualness than when it began. "No one is. Nothing makes sense. You step out of one cage and realise that there's just more walls, more than you could ever imagine. Walls like threat of death, or just simply… time." He offers a hand to her. Just keep walking. Just keep moving forward. "Welcome to the world, Odessa. It's not a hell of a lot different than yours, just bigger."
Odessa grasps Sylar's hand tightly and lets him draw her in, keep her moving on. She sniffles softly and wipes at her eyes with the back of her free hand. "I like it out here." Both in the world, and this spot. "Can we do this again tomorrow?" she asks. "And the next day?" Glistening and pleading, her eyes travel up and don't quite meet his, but instead settle on a spot just to the left side of the bridge of his nose.
Leading her along, they walk, and Sylar's mouth twists into a small smile, looking back at her and meeting her eyes even if she doesn't meet his. "And forever," he promises. It's an easy promise to make when you know forever can't exist. But that's the price of being special. He keeps his hand wrapped about hers as they walk away from the ghost ships and the birds that roost there.
 November 17th: Sanctuary |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 November 18th: Job Training |