Don't Talk About...


odessa_icon.gif sylar_icon.gif wu-long_icon.gif

Scene Title Don't Talk About…
Synopsis Sylar and Wu-Long spar while Odessa watches on and comments like it's a horror flick.
Date November 27, 2008

Eagle Electric

Most notable business collapse in Queens was that of Eagle Electric, a major manufacturer based out of Long Island City for decades, comprised of acres of warehouses and manufacturing plants designed to produce electronic components to suit all sorts of needs. The western warehouse of the Eagle Electric lot is an enormous and foreboding red-painted building made entirely from sheets of ridged steel. Amidst the grass growing up through the cracks in the pavement and the burned out cars in the parking lot, it seems just as uninhabited as the rest of the area. A large and ruined sign at the top of the office and manufacturing building prominently reads, "Eagle Electric—Perfection Is Not An Accident."

Hard to put into letters exactly what it sounds like when incredibly heavy metal freight containers are dragged across concrete ground somewhat carelessly. A deep, reverberating whine with a high pitched edge at times, right around the point when sparks fly. With an echoing thud, the freight container halts near the wall, and Sylar turns to stretch out a hand and repeat the process with yet another, with makes a metallic clang when it hits another just behind it.

Clearing the space, gaining some room - as much as he can, anyway, he's not about to reorganise the entirety of the warehouse and no doubt someone will try to make him put it all back. The dais and its throne, covered by a white sheet like most objects within the warehouse, remains untouched. They'll just have to make do with this obstacle and try to blame each other if they break daddy's favourite chair.

Turning back from his work, Sylar moves back towards Odessa and Wu-Long, although his attention goes towards the male of the pair. "I don't suppose we require ground rules, do we?" he asks of the other Vanguardian, shedding his jacket and tossing it aside. Whatever armor it provided, he can do without, stripped down to boots, jeans, a T-shirt, all inevitably black as if camouflage were necessary. Traditionally, one would be barefoot during a sparring match, but with all the glass and debris on the warehouse floor, he's not going to risk it.

Nor is Wu-Long, whose socked and shoed feet roll not-quite-soundlessly over the debris as he adjusts the angle where he's standing to look at the work that the younger man has done. "No kills, crippling, or low blows. I think that is about what we need," he answers shortly and without particular emphasis on any particular item on the list or volume donated toward imbuing it with importance. There is enough space here, he decides. Swings his own arms out as if to measure the distance between striated iron container walls with the stretch of his fingertips.

He's clad in as much — or as little as Sylar himself, dense canvas work pants and a black wife-beater fitted functionally against the wiry musculature of his frame. Shorter and lighter than his opponent, and boasting a considerably smaller arsenal of specifically Evolved abilities, he can't logically expect to win. He doesn't, particularly. He tends not to expect much from his life or the people in it at all. Quiet inside, he listens to the thunder of his lungs drawing breath, feels his ribs expand. Lets fall his arms from their cruciform. "Odessa can give the word, if she would please?"

"Sure," Odessa agrees quietly, picking up Sylar's jacket from the floor. She scurries off to disappear behind one crate and re-emerges moments later, pulling herself up to perch atop one of the ringside containers. "I'm not really sure how to properly do this, but you asked, so you're stuck with me and my way. Okay!" The girl's tongue darts between her lips and she clicks one bright fuchsia heel against the metal beneath her. Click. "Ready?" Click. "Set?" Click. … Click. … Five is a good number. "Go!" Click!

If Wu-Long doesn't expect to win, Sylar is the opposite. There's no doubt in his mind. That, of course, could wind up to be a disadvantage, but then, he doesn't completely count out Wu-Long's heftier experience. Probably why they're even able to do this. He nods to the "rules" laid down, hands curled towards his chest as he rubs a thumb along his knuckles. Mildly bruised, one of them even cut, subtle injuries that indicate he's done a little bit of old fashioned hitting in the past few days, although any other bruises that indicate people fought back are either non-existent, or covered beneath thin black fabric. Only on his right arm does a scar peek out, an older injury thanks to a mutual federal agent friend. Aside from all that, he seems ready, mind and body both.

As Odessa scurries up onto the freight container, Sylar glances her way, eyebrows raising, and then his head ducks down for a moment as if to hide his amusement at her antics, a twitch of a smile. But seriousness takes over once more as the clicking of her heels against metal, louder striking sounds to Sylar's ears, almost painful, and a hand raises around the word 'Ready?' It starts to glow a warm orange, burning brighter as she nears that last, fifth heel click, hot enough that the air around his glowing palm starts to waver.

And on that final click… well maybe his decoy was distraction enough to steal attention from his other, not glowing hand, which rises subtle, fingers flicking out, an invisible fishhook planting itself painless in Wu-Long's chest with the intent to send him sprawling back, radioactive hand flickering out.

They all have their scars. Wu-Long's are not conspicuous in the half-light and his still deep-seated sailor's tan, and when the obvious lines of his body are the ones that he collects his stance into, center of balance slung forward onto the ball of his left foot, eyes open, hands up, the surface area presented to his opponent minimized by the angle of his shoulders and dorsal axis. He doesn't watch Sylar's hand glow; he watches Sylar's eyes. There are a dozen different schools of thought about where you ought to place your eyes when you're in a fight.

Watching your opponent's offers the conventional value of being able to read the true extent of pain inflicted, and spot the last-instant dilation of the pupil before a blow comes. The downside is obvious and proportional: one might well offer the other those exact same tells.

Fortunate, then, that Wu-Long has so very few. Struck by the hook, he flies backward with the velocity of the blow, propelled by the regular physics of mass. They change halfway through the fall when he decorporealizes, like a man-shaped pinata imploding into vaporous black confetti, the skein curling and tangling in whirl that implies the spin and blur of agile limbs. He hits the ground solid, however, having found a crouch low on the concrete, one palm splayed open against powdered glass and dirt.

Odessa's eyes grow wide as she watches the match begin. She's unsurprised when Wu-Long goes flying backward and she smiles widely when he recovers quickly. The shift in her movements is subtle, but Sylar can still Hear the scrape of her heels against the storage unit as she clutches his coat to her chest. Her heart pounds in her chest. How exciting!

Instantly, the air around them starts to thicken, become warmer. Call it a back up, he can't just conjure a mist in a place like the warehouse on a whim, but the humidity slowly climbs all the same, not visible just yet. It unfurls and stews in the background of his consciousness, Sylar's eyes narrowing a little when Wu-Long's shadowed self transforms into something more corporeal and lands almost catlike. Fair enough. The barest of pauses, the killer rolls his shoulders as if to loosen them, and he briskly starts making his way towards the other man. His stance isn't that of an experienced warrior - in fact, if it weren't for his height and build, it'd be the most unthreatening approach possible despite its pace. But he doesn't consider his own form to be the thing that threatens, that holds power. Trying the same trick twice, he flings his hand out again, this time to carry Wu-Long back and back with the intent to hold him against the metallic walls of crates just behind him. May as well test the limits.

Being aggressively walked at by Sylar isn't an altogether encouraging prospect for most people, and while Wu-Long generally isn't 'most people,' he's seen the other man fight enough times to expect what's coming next. Perhaps sensing his intent, and compelled by the same intellectual curiosity, there's no effort, this time, to duck back into intangibility. The telekinetic hook sinks in, finds purchase, and its cable channels enough force to hurl into the crate directly behind him.

If he had been much further away from it, acceleration probably would have knocked the better part of the air out of his lungs. As it is, the distance already reduced by the first blow, he finds himself rattled despite that he was braced. Pinned, unconventionally, assessing the discomfort of that with a cyborg's subtle and efficient algorithms. Are his hands free? His feet? Does it hurt? Black lashes splay atop Wu-Long's cheekbones once, blinking, and he looks up, eyes narrowing to bring Sylar's approaching figure up for its sharp-focus close-up.

"Oh, be careful, Wu-Long!" Odessa squeaks from her perch, one hand instantly slapping over her mouth as her face flushes red. She hadn't meant to actually say that! She redoubles her clutch on Sylar's coat with both hands now and presses her lips together in a thin line.

Wu-Long will find himself pinned via his chest, his arms, everything else free, head liberated to turn and legs liberated to kick, although Sylar stops at an approximate distance. His hands lift up, almost in a gesture of 'my bad', a smile playing out across his face. Instantly, thin rays of alien-green light shoot forth from his fingertips, up towards the warehouse rafters, flickering impotently, all light and no heat, not just yet. His head twitches a little towards Odessa when she squeaks, but he attempts to not allow himself to be distracted, bringing his hands around to rake the lasers across the crate, burning the fabric that covers it and approaching Wu-Long's form swiftly.

Fucking lazers. If Wu-Long hated anything, he'd hate lazers. He watches Sylar's approaching out of the peripheral of his vision, and in the other margin of his attention, Odessa's cry vaguely amuses. He can smell it, the metal splitting and roasting, the heat of malice off the other man's skin and invisible sneer. They both already know what he has to do, in these long instants before he does it. He lets the moment stretch on, anyway, allows that cutting light to draw nearer. Hard to tell why, just from watching him, knowing the ground rules remain where he had left them and there's only one route of escape to be found without Sylar's generosity.

Like playing chicken with the relative fragility of his own flesh. Playing chicken with lazers. A couple more inches, and he'll burn.

Before those inches happen, of course, Wu-Long is gone to blackness. Simultaneously, so does Sylar's eyesight, taken away from him with the ceremony of a stray thought, a wordless command, light waves and soundwaves both simultaneously flatlined in a globe around his head, a fishbowl of sensory negation. He requires the distraction, you see. Though Sylar's grasp is far from airtight, the stuff of this particular ghost is made of isn't entirely intangible and he needs to get away now.

Sometime during that little game of chicken, Sylar's jacket fell from Odessa's grasp so the girl could clamp both hands over her mouth. The fading resonance of a cry that was never voiced echo off the walls of the warehouse.

The blindness is a surprise, not entirely unpleasant for the first second - confusing, unsure what happened to the light. But it's the fact he can no longer hear, or even Hear, that makes his heart skip a beat, smile vanishing. The lasers readily flicker out of reality, and the telekinetic hold— he doesn't even know what he's holding onto, let alone something so slippery it moves through the air like ink. In a moment, Wu-Long will feel that pressure flicker and then disappear entirely, almost a wordless negotiation - give me back my eyes, give me back my ears. Of course, he doesn't expect the deal to be met completely, and only tenses, waiting. Around the corners of the warehouse, a fine mist is building, and seems to thicken even more in this moment of stress.

The mist does not go unnoticed, but it's little more than a margin note, along with the fall of Sylar's coat to the floor. It doesn't matter yet. It might, soon. Abiding by terms that are neither commonplace nor spoken, Wu-Long nevertheless dismisses the miniature prison he'd locked the white boy's senses into. Hadn't had to, probably, and wouldn't have if this scrap mattered in any way worth writing to Kazimir about, but this isn't, and equitability has less to do with it than the point of the exercise. Ending it would not be the point.

Sylar will recognize sight when it returns to him. Metal crate, smoking cloth split with surgical precision for feet before it inevitably gives way to a ragged swoop and waver, the far wall and the near crates all equally available for his viewing pleasure, and Wu-Long perhaps alarmingly absent until the awareness comes to him, perhaps, that he is standing in the other man, his own shadow turned a hundred times deeper than it ought to have been.

That split instant is all the warning Wu-Long gives, if Sylar is attentive enough to take that for what it is, before pitch tendrils abruptly mass into legs crooked like a steel trap, moving to jerk Sylar's considerably longer limbs out from underneath him and trap his right knee into a joint lock, the point of bone forced in the direction opposite God intended.

"Sylar, look out!" Odessa shrieks, horror etched into the lines of her face.

About halfway through Odessa's warning, Sylar is tipped up off his feet to meet the inevitable ground, and to his credit, he doesn't make a sound. Until his knee is near dislocated. Then he makes a sound. It echoes out in the form of a pained, growled cry an instant as his back hits the ground, and struggles instinctively like a trapped animal, before going very still. That is, for the fwoomf of flickering light that floods his body, not just his hands, instantly hot and radioactive, making smoke come up in furls from his clothing, and he lashes out once more towards the shadowy opponent, hand in a fist.

Hot hand hits solid body with a noise like barbecue slapping the grill — and Wu-Long's reaction to pain is just as quick as Sylar's had been. Recoil, a hiss expelled through teeth clenched like a grille. The grip on Sylar's leg pops open the next moment, like a spring trap with its crucial line severed, and he rolls away and returns to his feet in the same sinuous arc of motion.

There's a burn scored into the top of his shoulder, knuckles-sized, where the larger man had scrambled to reach for the nearest part if he could. Had his angle been only a little better, his force a little greater, the sleeve-strap of Wu-Long's shirt would have been scorched and rent apart entirely. As it is, the skin shows a lurid red, the promise of blisters pooling gradual, serous underneath the skin. Displaying remarkable restraint in addition to a tight-lipped suppression of pain, Wu-Long proceeds to kick the man in the — ribs.

Again, the woman atop the metal container screams. She takes to steps toward the edge, ready to jump down and help, but Odessa rebels against her every instinct and stays where she is, out of the way. She'll be working hard after this fight, it seems.

Unless he wants to take down the whole building in an enveloping mushroom cloud, Sylar reins in the radiation, the heat and light sucking back into his bones, it seems, leaving behind utterly untouched skin but clothing that has now seen better days. The black fabric disguises well enough the scorch marks, but small holes here and there show occasional flashes of skin.

With a fluid kind of grace that's almost surprising, Sylar gets to his feet, gritting his teeth against the ache in his right knee— and in a sudden blur of motion, Wu-Long's foot only finds purchase in the air. Not out of a superhuman reaction time does Sylar move, but the speed of movement is what gets him out of the way, suddenly several feet back from Wu-Long in a blurred blink of an eye.

He lets out a breath, as if he'd just run the length of the warehouse rather than the shorter distance, but it doesn't stop him from flinging out a hand towards the corner of the warehouse, where mist has gathered thickly, a warning as to what's to come. The water condenses into a liquid spike, completely harmless if not for the speed at which it's launched Wu-Long's way, a familiar attack should Wu-Long remember a girl with red hair. Barely looking to see if the water hit, Sylar is turning to repeat the process.

So: Jennifer Childs is dead. You'd have to see it to believe it, and Wu-Long is getting quite the eyeful, as a singing spear of glittering liquid which he remembers well rushes toward him. Fire then water. There's poetry in that; nothing a soldier would have learned to appreciate. He lunges aside, the tip of the hydrokinetic projectile lancing by inches from his torso. and again. He is swift on his feet, as a man his size is wont to be, but it is undoubtedly only a matter of time before the disparity in effort it takes Sylar to think the vicious thought and for Wu-Long to shift his entire frame out of the window catches up to him in a bloody way.

Coming to an executive decision based on a rather obvious conclusion, he closes the distance between himself and Sylar in a swift running step, his shin swinging like a baseball bat toward Sylar's torso. Only, the angle's off, the arc and trajectory changing mid-air, bringing his foot down in a step intended to follow the predicted dodge instead of a kick in and of itself. His other foot is up, the next instant, point of knee keening toward Sylar's navel.

The breath hitches in Odessa's throat and her hands drop to her sides, fingers twitching with anxiety and the energy it takes not to act. Apart from the flexing digits, and eyes tracking the movements of the battle, the girl holds stark still. Almost like a cat waiting for the opportune moment to pounce.

His body arcs in an effect to avoid the coming kick, or at least making sure it glances off him with minimal damage, arms up— and thus leaving him vulnerable to the knee that comes up before he can think. Hand to hand is not Sylar's forte, and the expulsion of air from his lungs is almost audible to Odessa's ears as he crumples somewhat, a hand out to catch himself from pitching forward completely. He's slower than he'd like to right himself, but that's his next move, and a moment later, a fist coming out in a good old fashioned right hook. None of the finesse of Wu-Long's is in the swing, but Sylar makes use of his better reach, height, to try and balance out his own inexperience, something like a growl coming from the multiply powered younger man who's not picking up any of his weapons just this moment.

Nor, apparently, is Wu-Long. Though, to be fair, his abilities less often form weapons in and of themselves then they offer enhancement to his suite of skills. And so it was, that he closed the distance between himself and the other man, knowing full well that short of removing the knife from his calf or recruiting a firearm from some unimaginable part of this warehouse, Sylar operates far better at distance than he does.

He watches the swing coming in like a freight train and his hands go up, long, scarred fingers closing around the man's wrist as Sylar's arm reaches full extension. At the same time, Wu-Long hooks his foot around the larger man's ankle, twists himself taut, to throw Sylar facedown into the ground on the fulcrum of his heel and spin the borrowed arm around behind his back at an angle easily identified as — awkward. His face is blank and his breathing quick but deep enough to fuel him with the air he needs to try and manage Sylar's greater size and weight.

Sylar's knees hit the warehouse floor with audible cracks, and this time he manages to clamp down on any cry of pain, even as his arm is pulled back into a jarring angle, making his body go still so as not to encourage that pain to sharpen, freed arm folded underneath his body so he doesn't faceplant utterly. That's when things start to shake, metal grinds against concrete, as if everything is being tugged at with a little telekinesis - Odessa may recognise the sensation from the boat graveyard in at Staten Island - and as if in an all-encompassing intake of breath, glass and dirt and sharp debris lifts off the concrete ground in preparation to close in, cut, choke, but it never quite makes it.

And then she cried out, "Stoooooooooop!" Odessa nearly crumples atop the container, hands held out in front of her in a command to halt. Though Sylar's tugging with all the power his mental abilities afford him, everything has paused in midair. "Enough!" The girl comes to the edge of the container and then turns around so she can crouch down, grab hold tight with her fingers and then kick her legs off with a sharp gasp before her shoes CLANG! against the side and she dangles still a few feet above the ground. She drops the last bit down and hurries over to the boys. She's wiping sweat from her brow when she reaches them, looking paler than usual.

Injury was bearing toward Wu-Long with much — if not all — of the furor and force that the younger man could conjure, and he was bracing for it, instinctively, falling back to muscle-memory, training and physical durability instead of his shadow-form for no reason that he had the time or the inclination to assign words to, his pupils dilated, the beginning of a humored rictus contorting his lips, rupturing the mask of sterile attentiveness like too much heat forcing itself through the subtle, self-created flaws in baked clay. Before it shatters, though— before it really shatters, the situation changes. Odessa's here, her voice hard and high, damp and massing power to her cause.

There is another rule to the spar that they hadn't mentioned, but this one founded in a reasonably well-established tradition of bloodsport: adding a participant imbalances the competition of skill. This sparring session is over, as far as he's concerned. Instantly, the hold on Sylar's arm releases and he's moving back, shifting, reaching to help pull the larger man to his feet, the majority of his attention on Odessa. The burn mark puckers bright red on his shoulder. "Are you all right?" he asks the woman, apparently unaware of any and all absurdity in that query. Or who he's asking it to.

The help, it seems, isn't entirely welcome, Sylar's head snapping to look across at Odessa when suddenly, it's as though there is nothing to pull at, or as if his powers had stopped working entirely, the glass and debris frozen in the air like a still sand storm. A spike of panic is quickly muffled by silent and dangerous anger, but he has other things to think about, like the fact he's now at a severe disadvantage. But as it should, the fight is ended, and the tension in his arm is released, almost a surprise, and he quickly draws it into a more comfortable position, smoothly rolling onto his back and grudgingly accepting the hand up. Despite the ferocity of the battle, no blood has been spilled, only bruises and aches that go too deep to be visible, and Sylar seems to be favouring his left leg when he turns towards her. "What's wrong?" he grits out, dark eyes landing on the doctor when she approaches.

"Have you stopped?" the girl asks Sylar quietly, hands held out to either side of her now, fingers trembling as she looks around to the debris suspended in mid-flight. "I'm fine," she assures Wu-Long, "but you should probably go take a seat and let me have a look at you. You're hurt." She turns her attention to Sylar then, "And you sit down as well. I need to look at your knee." Odessa may not understand entirely the rules of this spar, but the concern on her face speaks to her inability to watch the two men tear at each other.

That surprises Wu-Long more than hysteria would have, this unassuming and methodical concern that quakes around the edges with nervous tension. Troubled by it, almost, he finds himself looking away in favor of studying the razor-edged glass and dirt particles suspended in the air like a post-modern art exhibit. He blinks at Odessa's query. This isn't Sylar's doing, then. He'd known that, obscurely, but the confirmation is welcome. He releases Sylar and settles on his feet, reaching back to ruffle callused fingers through the ropey sable of his hair.

"It should be sprained, but the swelling should go down in as little as a day if you ice it at the right intervals." He is talking about Sylar's knee. He must be, because he then adds, a touch awkwardly and a fractional moment too slowly, as if he's confused about the behavioral protocol now that Odessa has broken hers, "Thank you." There is a small and translucent question-mark kind of super-imposed on the end of that phrase. He glances at Sylar.

Sylar hesitates, then lifts a hand, experimental, gaze moving towards the floating debris. Nothing happens for about two long seconds, before, hesitantly, that hand drops again. The three of them remain standing in the eye of a frozen cyclone, it seems, made only visible by the dust and glass and dirt hanging suspended. "I've stopped," he confirms, for a moment visibly ruffled by her display of power, and acknowledges Wu-Long's instruction with the barest of nods. "It's just a sprain," he repeats, to Odessa, and tilts his head slightly towards Wu. "And his is just a burn." He's unreadable, right now, expression mask-like and tone of voice neutral.

Odessa's hands drop back to her sides and everything suspended goes hurtling through the air just a little further, propelled still by halted momentum, before it all comes unceremoniously crashing to the floor of the warehouse. Odessa presses one hand to her chest, taking in a couple gasping breaths. She doesn't argue with either man. If they want to be macho, it's their funerals.

Nice trick. Wu-Long wonders if that's how that other speedster's brain got out of his head. That seems reasonably likely, the terrific force with which those debris go flying. The next moment, the discarded projectiles drop out of his attention entirely, his and Sylar's injuries with them, and Odessa finds herself ranked somewhere in the upper echelons of shit that needs handling. Somewhere below that logical priority, he appreciates the other man's blank-faced stiffness.

Whether or not it's injured pride. "Come, xiao jie, you should sit down." He steps forward, his boot soundless on the freshly-swept floor. In the liquid black eyewater of his steadfast regard, the young woman's pallor and duckling's-down crop are reflected in luminous miniature. She looks a little terrible. "We shouldn't have frightened you." This time, a little like the last, he offers her a palm up.

Sylar checks out of the conversation as Wu-Long smoothly interjects to handle Odessa, tentatively putting weight on the foot of his injured leg, before moving away from them both towards where Odessa had discarded his jacket on the floor, now dusty from the events previous. There's only a limp where necessary and no other exaggeration, stooping awkwardly to pick up the jacket as if tentative to use his powers to do it, and shake it free of glass and sand before he slips it on. The ache in his shoulder and the numerous other bruises and twinges are, on some level, deeply satisfying. The fight's conclusion is dissolved into uncertainty since the interruption, but now no one can say Sylar's never had a true, evenly matched fight, even if he operates better at a… distance than a closer and more tradition scrap. Still. Irritating. He'd like to know he could win a fight without resorting to killing everyone and burning the building down in the process. Call it impatience.

The zipper sound of his jacket is a sharp interruption as he does it up, the killer turning back towards the pair. "I'd like to do more of that sometime," Sylar says, directed towards Wu-Long. If he's ignoring Odessa, it doesn't seem pointed. "Perhaps I could learn from you." A show of humility, but always with that 'perhaps'. Like, perhaps Ethan could show him how to use a gun, in reference to a combat workshop weeks ago.

"I'm fine," Odessa insists again. "I may have overdid it a couple days ago, but I think it's just stress…" She glances toward Sylar once, apprehension in her eyes. She's sure she's screwed up. She drops her gaze to the floor. "I'm sorry," she murmurs before hurrying off toward the exit, heels crunching on glass and slipping having difficulty finding purchase due to the sand here and there.

Effectively abandoned, Wu-Long does what a forsaken soldier is wont to do: stare after the way his company had went, then assess the survivability of the situation. Quite. Her heels chatter seagulls against the grainy gray sea of concrete and he mentally marks the direction of her departure without assumption that she would let him catch up or real plan that he will try to. Pressing his mouth into a wry expression, he glances back at Sylar in time to take that acknowledgment, garnished with a grain of salt, and all. His eyes hood.

"Perhaps," he answers, turning the reluctance of Sylar's deference about and into a commensurate reluctance to accept it. Though he retracts that the next moment, falling back on good, old-fashioned Confucian manners. "Perhaps training. I could learn something from you too. That many powers working in close coordination is rare, but our mission might lead to similar situations," he says, cheerfully leaving be the possibility that they'll have it out in earnest, some time. In a matter of time. He motions after Odessa with a jerk of his head and begins to step after her, a wordless explanation. Orders: he has to try.

Sylar's mouth twists into something very much like a smile. "Then we'll have to schedule a rematch," he says, adjust the collar of his jacket. When Wu-Long tilts his head towards Odessa, he glances the blonde's way, expression flickering as if genuine concern or annoyance or annoyance at his own concern or something was at war with a more stoic mask, but it's gone against in an instant. He didn't mean to make her apologise and run away, it seems, but he doesn't seem overly eager to fix it - not right now, not entirely unwound from the combat. He nods to Wu-Long in return when the man indicates he'll do the opposite and see to the woman, and Sylar contents himself in pulling impossibly heavy freight containers back into place. Kazimir won't like the shifted around mirror shards, but perhaps in time, Sylar can fix that too. A perfect memory, and all that.

November 27th: Descent

Previously in this storyline…

Next in this storyline…

November 27th: Something To Be Thankful For
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