Hunter and Hunted


sylar_icon.gif felix_icon.gif

Scene Title Hunter and Hunted
Synopsis Felix may have driven one set of neighbors away, but now 'Gabriel' returns the favor
Date October 29, 2008

Cliffside Apartments, Queens

From the third story rooftop of Cliffside Apartments, the dirty and gray skyline of Long Island City comes into full view. Surrounded on all sides by industrial complexes, warehouses and factories, this converted mill building views little more than a sea of concrete and glass. To the northwest, the jagged skyline of Manhattan shows the bristling and broken husks of buildings ruined by the bomb, half visible in their gutted states.

The roof itself is spacious, and like man apartment complexes features a small community garden of vegetables in black plastic bins. Tomatos, carrots, cucumbers and an assortment of other easy to grow plants are shared by the tenants, originally planted by the building owner back before the bomb. Some old and worn patio furniture has been brought up onto the roof as well to allow modest relaxation, though much of it is usually occupied by the innumerable birds that seem to gravitate to the building. Ravens, mostly, perch upon the ledges and furniture during most hours of the day and night.

It's evening. The last light of the sunset is dying in the western sky, and the Agent is up on the roof with an after-dinner cup of coffee curled loosely in one hand. He's got his overcoat draped loosely over his shoulders, but he's no longer in the full suit - - jacket, tie, and holster are down in the apartment below. He's watching a flock of birds swirl and turn in unison, eyes clear behind his rimless glasses. His expression is calm, remote, a little sad.

If the opening of the door from the interior of the building wasn't enough of a signal, a crow that was sitting just neearby abruptly takes flight, interrupting the swirling flock above them. The man that walks out onto the roof doesn't look Felix's way, only moves automatically for the ledge of the roof to peer out at the view. He's dressed all in black, a heavy, double-breasted woolen winter coat obscuring most of what he wears underneath. Bulky framed glasses are perched on his nose, but these, Sylar takes off to clean with the cuff of his coat, before pocketing the spectacles. "It's getting cold out here," he observes, just loud enough for the other rooftop occupant's benefit.

It takes a moment or two for Fel to emerge from his reverie, and blink over quizzically at the newcomer. "Oh, yes," he says, mildly. "Won't be long before we have our first snow, and soon it'll be too cold to linger out here for any length of time." He sounds a little regretful.

"But at least the snow will cover up the scarred parts," Sylar says, now moving closer, to perhaps stand companionably by Felix. "New York in the winter, it's what tourist destinations are made of. You're Felix Ivanov, correct?" He gives the fed a benign smile, almost shy. "I remember you from floor three, you're Eileen's neighbour."

"There is that," Fel concedes, taking a sip of his coffee. "I remember how magical it seemed when I first arrived. It was close to Christmas, and very beautiful," The words are banal, but there's a wealth of mourning in his voice. "Yes, I am. Have you seen her recently?" he wonders, a thread of worry in his tone, as he turns to face Sylar fully.

"No," Sylar says, with his own layer of concern on his voice - but Felix is a little better at it, as there is a note of insincerity there. "In fact, I haven't seen her since the day I met you, strangely enough." He gives the man an amused smile. "Maybe you scared her way. Her heart was beating so fast, I'm surprised no one else could hear it."

Felix takes in a slow breath, holds it, and lets it out deliberately. "Oh, dammit," he says. "My housemate will be heart-broken. They were getting along, or so she said. Me? Why would she be scared of me?" God knows he's not at all physically intimidating. Not unless men who look like they should be accountants are a phobia.

Only slightly, he raises one hand, arm closet to the door only slightly outstretched as if he were pauses from taking something out of his pocket. "Perhaps living across the hall from a federal agent made her nervous," Sylar says, gaze now very much trained on Felix's face. "Can't imagine why, she's a harmless little thing."

Something - kindness, perhaps, or what passes in him for warmth - fades slowly out of his face, leaving only that almost canine look of intense curiosity. But his tone remains mild. "Well, I don't know. Presumably she wasn't up to something against the law," he says, with a slight shrug. "Though really, we're like priests, in that our mere presence tends to make people examine their consciences," he says, fishing in his pocket for cigarette case and lighter.

"That's true," Sylar says. "We all have things to atone for. What about you, Agent Ivanov? What made your heart race that day?" His sharper gaze becomes studious, as if trying to find the answer to his question in Felix's eyes - or maybe just behind them. His other hand comes up - a stranger gesture, as if he were trying to calm Felix like he might a wild animal, despite the lack of need for it. "Somehow… I don't think it was out of guilt." A finger twitches, and suddenly, an invisible push to Felix's chest intends to send the man sprawling back.

And there it goes again. Felix's heart begins that machine-gun rhythym, faster than a human's should be able to bear. He's down, but then he's up again on his feet, quicker than the eye can follow. There's the hummingbird flicker of his hand diving for a gun…..which is not there. Quite locked away in his nightstand, under the assumption that here, at least, was safe. "Who are you?" he wonders, poised on the balls of his feet.

And there it goes again. Felix's heart begins that machine-gun rhythym, faster than a human's should be able to bear. He's down, but then he's up again on his feet, quicker than the eye can follow. There's the hummingbird flicker of his hand diving for a gun…..which is not there. Quite locked away in his nightstand, under the assumption that here, at least, was safe. "Who are you?" he wonders, poised on the balls of his feet.

A look of wonder seems to flicker across Sylar's expressive features at this show of superhuman speed. "Fascinating," is all he says at first, still keeping that hand out - if one were to follow it's direction, it might be clear that the door leading into the interior of the building is held very, very tightly closed. "You must get so much done in a day." Another telekinetic shove, a colder look now descending onto his features. "My name is Sylar."

It knocks Fel off-balance, but he's like the proverbial Weeble - he may wobble, but he doesn't fall down. By his expression, he knows that name, and it's not one he's pleased to hear. "You," he says, simply, but his voice is filled with loathing. And then he's a blur of motion again, leaving a swirl of dust hanging behind him as he streaks for the fire escape.

The pressure on the door is released in favour of better things. Sylar automatically runs after the blurred motion of Felix's fleeing. There's nothing he can see to telekinetically grab, and so instead - he attacks. His right hand suddenly flashes with light, orange and almost sickly despite it's brightness, fire-like but not quite fire, and that heats erupts out, streaking through the air and towards the fire escape.

Fel is, for an instant, sillhouetted against the skyline by that not-quite-flame, and then there's the clang-clang-clang of feet on iron ladders, the rattle of a window sash a story below. Some of that heat may have singed him, but it doesn't seem to have slowed him.

Sylar doesn't stop after the rocket of radiation is let loose, fading after it's shot past Felix's form by a few feet. The clanging of Felix's footsteps is joined as his own booted feet land on the metal. The structure shudders at the weight of two full grown men running down it, and then shudders a little more, exaggerated, a metallic screech as metal protests against some sort of invisible strain being placed on it - but nothing comes loose just yet.

He's vanished into the window of his own bedroom, and there's the frantic rattle of a nightstand drawer, as he snatches up the .45. Please, god, let this monster be something bullets will hurt. Though in nightmares, they never are. Sylar can still hear that frantic heart-beat, but something uneven's come into its cadence. Faltering, if not slowing. Perhaps he's not as durable as he might seem.

The metal still rattles with indication that Sylar is pursuing, his own heartbeat racing but not nearly as much as Felix's. There's no real time for thought, just listening to where that most distinctive heartbeat go— that window. With a grunt, he reaches for the edge of the window, and pulling himself into the frame of it, stumbling without much grace into the room, a hand forward - for a telekinetic attack, for a radiation pulse? Who knows, but he keeps it free.

Fel's just there, on the other side of the bed. But there's the sharp two *cracks* of a pistol twice fired, before he's fleeing again. No, you don't get read your Miranda rights, apparently.

Guns. Sigh. If the first bullet finds purchase, Sylar doesn't make a sound, but his body jerks in reaction - whether by instinct or because he's wounded, hard to say, because with a flash of light, white and unearthly - a shield of sorts - bursts from his palm, deflecting the second bullet which instead buries itself into plaster wall. A moment later, the shield blinks out, and Sylar claps that hand over his arm, showing teeth. Yeah, he was hurt. "Ivanov," he growls, and here's to hoping Felix's speed holds up, because he flings out a hand - the glass from his opened window suddenly breaks free of its frame in shards, and they go whipping towards where he can only guess Felix is headed.

Thank God, none of the women are there. No one for Felix to stay and defend. There's a tiny hiss of pain, and a gout of blood entirely disproportionate to the wound actually dealt left on the doorframe. But Fel is really showing his heels now - the apartment's outer door BANGS against the frame, as he bolts for the stairwell.

With a grunt, Sylar starts for the door, a glance spared to the splash of blood, and impatience marking his actions, he telekinetically tears the door from its frame as he races on out, leaving behind the sounds of clatter and chaos. Unfortunately for him, the fed seems to be one step - or several - ahead, but he chases all the same, flying, though not literally, down the stairs. You can run, speedster. I will find you is what Felix will suddenly hear, in his head, the same voice of the man pursuing him.

There's no reply. But in the distance, the sound of his feet slow, from that inhuman speed to something more like a normal human at a fast run. No, he can't keep it up indefinitely, apparently. There's a little trail of crimson drops behind him - a blood trail.

There's a limit to everything. Sylar keeps following that blood trail, out of the building, down the street, but his run slows to a jog, to a walk, to a halt. He can't hear the footsteps anymore, even after they've slowed, and he bends down, one arm resting against his knees as he breathes for a moment. People aren't supposed to get away, let alone agents who know his name and face. He lets loose a frustrated, angry growl, back straightening again and casting a dark look ahead of him, before he turns, heads back to the apartment building. Time to clean up and clean out, and leave unfinished business to attend to another day.

October 29th: From the Ashes
October 29th: Guardian Angel
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