If At First You Don't Succeed


dina_icon.gif sylar_icon.gif

Scene Title If At First You Don't Succeed
Synopsis …try, try again.
Date November 5, 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."

It's late at night, and Sylar is still wet from the rain. His tie has been discarded, a white shirt with its collar open covered by a damp but dapper black suit jacket, and he doesn't seem to be waiting for anyone, not expecting anyone to find him here. It was just somewhere to go.

Because practice makes perfect.

It's strangely cold inside the warehouse, even more so than the fact it's nearing winter in New York and nothing about this place makes it any warmer. But there's a chilly, freezer like quality that Sylar is effectively ignoring, even if frost collects on the sleeve of his jacket, hand extended out and glowing an iridescent blue. In front of him, going slowly, the air seems to freeze, miniscule flakes of ice collecting in almost a slow beam, inching further away from his outstretched palm. The observant might note that it's progressing towards a puddle that's collected on the floor several feet away, and the very edges are starting to frost over. But it's just a little too out of reach.

Well that's certainly enough to break his concentration. Sylar blinks and looks towards the sound of someone calling out, from just behind him, the blue instantly fading from his hand, although the chill in the air lingers. Without so much as glancing at his own actions, he wipes the ice free from his sleeves, and stands, turning to observe the woman outlined by the large, warehouse door. "No one's here," he says, voice echoing through the cavernous space. Probably a good thing she said a few magic words, there, too. "Except for me," he adds, because, he supposes, he does count.

She looks over. Well, new person, and she doesn't know him…but then, this is definitely the place, and he'd be guest-starring as Mr. Pile Of Dust if he weren't supposed to be here. She drops the bag near the door and starts in closer. "Y' must be new." Since SHE'S never heard of him. "And American, from the sound of y'." She walks over closer, and seems a but surprised when she steps into the puddle. "They got a leak in the roof around this dump? Sure'n wouldn't it figure?"

"Not anymore," Sylar says (with only a moment's hesitation to decipher the strong Irish lilt of her voice), and glances up towards the ceiling far above them. Certainly, whatever was creating a leak has been temporarily patched up some way some how. That's what you get when you have telescopic vision, telekinesis, a talent for fixing things and far, far too much time on your hands. "It's an old building, it's raining heavily. Who," and now he looks back at her, "are you?"

She looks back at him, after looking up at the ceiling, following his gaze. "Name's Dina." She offers a hand out for a hand shake. "I work for Kazimir. Apparently he's got enough irons in the fire that he wants me over here now. Which means I've got t' put up with that gobshite Ethan again." Pauses. "Unless he's dead. He's not dead, is 'e?" That's said with far too hopeful a tone.

One eyebrow raises at that, in some amusement that doesn't quite manifest into a smirk. Almost, though. "No. No, Ethan's still alive. I think he'd be difficult to kill," Sylar says, and this is where he closes the distance a few foot steps in order to take her hand. Unlike some with with the same ability he had stolen years ago, his hands are distinctly cold from the use of them. "My name is Sylar." …weird, so weird, to be introducing himself like this with that name, to someone he doesn't intend to murder. It'll take some getting used to.

She smirks. "Not so difficult. One a' these days, he'll fock up too bad, an' I'll throttle the bastad with his own intestines." It's said congenially. Conversationally. She looks surprised at the cold hands. "Y' must've just gotten back in from outside. Not a fit night out there, and that's a fact. Is that a first name or a last? I've no idea how you Yanks do it."

There's a pause, the sound of distant traffic making it not-quite-so silent, but it'll do. "Just Sylar," he says. "Kind of one of those singular names, like Sting. Or Cher." There is a definite undercurrent of irony in his voice, mostly marveling at the woman's cluelessness. "You're not from around here, are you."

She nods after a moment. "Fock no. Belfast, Ireland, originally. Lately, all over Europe." A smirk. "Doin' the good works, an' all that. Shoulda figured he wouldda brought more people on, but didn't really think much on it."

"The good work," Sylar repeats, musing, with a twist of a smirk before moving to walk back where he was seated, but facing her, this time. "So you've come here to strike while the iron's hot. What do you do, Dina? Do you kill like the others kill?" His head tilts to the side a little, an innocent gesture. "How?"

She laughs. "However he wants me to." She makes a "gun" motion with thumb and forefinger, to point at him. "Bang bang. Or else there's th' ever-popular "KABOOM"." An amused look. "Depends on what th' job calls for. What about you? Y' seem a bit too bright t' be one of the goon squad. What's got you around here?"

"That depends on what constitutes as the goon squad," Sylar says, almost modestly, though affected. "I'm here for a lot of reasons. Mostly because I'm too dangerous for them to not keep me around. Start saying my name around this city and you'll find out why." Pause. "It'll be in your best interest not to do that, of course."

The Irish woman grins back at Sylar. "Dangerous, eh?" She looks at him, considering him head to toe. "No guns." she says, after a moment's assessment. "No knives, either, or if they are, they're small. Wouldn't have brought me back here if y' were an explosives specialist." A challenging grin. "So what makes y' so dangerous, hmm?"

"A lot of things," Sylar answers, with a growing smile, and now he reaches out a hand, towards her - slowly, as if to show her he means her no real harm. And then, a telekinetic, invisible force with clamp around her shoulders, gently picking her up a few inches— or. Or it would. His hand seems to loosen in the air for a moment, before tensing again, smile vanishing in a moment.

She grins back, apparently completely unaware of any said force. "These are not the droids yer lookin' for? I saw that movie too." She says, amused. "Y' keep his movie collection organized?" She makes a mock "guess".

Excuse me, Sylar's having a bit of a crisis - an almost fearful expression crosses his face, hand lowering as he looks at it. Her words gain an incredulous look. Then, suddenly, he flings his hand out again, fingers outstretched, palm wide - a different direction, and all at once, one of the freight cargo containers lurches back with a scream of metal against concrete, the white cloth that covered it falling off as it collides back against the wall, filling the space with a numbingly loud metallic clang.

Dina looks over, eyes wide. "Bloody hell." she says, staring at the cargo container that just moved. "That's right fockin' awesome, there!" She looks at Sylar, impressed.

Sylar slowly lowers his hand, fighting to get his heart rate down to a normal level. Don't panic, still there. All of it's still there. Okay. Assess. He turns an accusing gaze towards Dina, but doesn't attempt it on her again. "You," he says. "You're special too. I should have been able to do that," and he points at the cargo container, "on you."

She blinks. "Well, sure'n I hope you're not tryin' to throw me across the room! God looks after his own, there. Those who do works in His name are under His watchful eye."

Sylar takes a few steps forward, a studious look on his face, as if trying to read her. "I wasn't going to hurt you," he says, a tone of impatience in his voice. "Why doesn't my power work on you?"

Dina chuckles. "I told y', y' gob. Can't go throwin' me across walls! God looks out for me." She seems okay with the notion he's Evolved, but has no clue he has more than the telekinesis.

That impatience that was in his voice now filters into his expression. "That's not an answer," Sylar says, flatly, showing his teeth a little between words. Then, with a contained sounding fwoomf, a sound Dina might be familiar with but on a much smaller scale, his right hand suddenly glows with sickly orange light. Pure heat without the fire, almost. "But let's test that theory."

She looks back at him, confused and angry now. "What in bloody hell're y' doin, y' stupid fockin' yank? Kazimir'll have yer head for tryin' to fight here." She knows he runs a tight ship, and her hand moves behind her back fast, pulling a small pistol from the small of her back, aiming it at him. "Now knock that shite off."

"I'm not trying to fight," Sylar says, the light from his hand casting stranger shadows across his face. "I'm just looking for a straight answer." His gaze goes down towards the pistol in her hands. "So you're scared of this?" The light dulls, some, but remains a warm glow encasing his skin. "You're not totally immune, I take it."

Dina looks back at him. "I haven't the foggiest fokin' idea what you're on about!" She snaps, angrily, and looks to him. She honestly does seem perplexed by it. But she doesn't lower the gun while his hand's on fire.

Slooowly does it, the light mutes, then goes out, Sylar glancing down at his hand to make sure. Incidentally, his hand is much warmer, now, and he unconsciously brings his hands together to warm the other one, before squinting over at her. "Then I guess that makes two of us," he says. Whether or not she lowers her gun, he tries something - his other hand comes out to take it, with that telekinesis, if only to see if he can.

Nothing. It's as if it doesn't exist. Since it's touching her skin, after all. But she does slowly lower it, and moves to put it back behind her back again.

This time, confusion and panic aren't his reactions - he only gives a slightly breathy chuckle, hand lowering again. "Like it's not even there," Sylar marvels. "No wonder you're on our side. Kazimir couldn't turn you into dust if he tried." Sure, there are plenty of other ways, he would guess, to kill her, but it's the principle of the thing.

Dina looks at him dubiously. "Y'r a bloody weird sorta guy, y'know that?" She remains hesitant. "We're good now?" Since they went from pleasant conversation to nearly-shooting.

"Oh, I've been told," Sylar offers, in a light tone. As if he hadn't just prepared to fire a small nuclear blast at the woman just to see what would happen. "Chalk it up to being the new kid on the block?" He starts, now, to move for the doors— unconsciously giving her a wide birth, as if uncertain if he wants to find out what it would be like to make physical contact with her.

She nods. "Well, good, then. He got us sleepin' here, or is this just where we're workin' out of?" She seems to be back to casual conversation now that they're not in a faceoff again.

Polished shoes make echoed foot steps as he walks, glancing towards her. "I don't think anyone lives here, no," Sylar answers, glancing towards her duffle bag, then back to her. There's a metallic creak as, with a wave of his hands, the large warehouse doors open again, the sound of storming rain now adding ambience to the setting. "Except for the ravens."

She looks up at the ceiling, and then frowns. "Looks like I do. Till I find out otherwise." She looks out at the rain. "Not a fit night out there for man or beast, Sylar. Y' be careful out there." As she warns the predator from going out into the night. Rather pointlessly.

"Beasts don't catch colds," he tosses over his shoulder, stepping readily into the rain. "Have a good night, Dina." Positively amicable, and Sylar even shuts the doors behind him - granted, with a telekinetic shove that makes the doors rattle on their hinges and the sound reverberate throughout the warehouse for a moment, but it's the thought that counts.

November 5th: Make A Splash
November 6th: Sharp Edges
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