Participants:
| Scene Title | Killing Business |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Sylar and Ethan discuss the craft. |
| Date | November 7, 2008 |
Dorchester Towers: Ethan's Apartment
Dorchester Towers is home to many upper class, or more wealthier inhabitants. This apartment seems to be no exception. First impressions of this place, give a homey, and well furnished feel. Lamps are put in the right place, decorations here and there. The living room consists of a large green sofa facing the wall of windows, which has a large flatscreen TV in front of it. Speakers are installed all around for the Surround Sound feel. Next to the TV is a cabinet full of DVDs. Most of these movies include a gun of some sort in each of them. A small coffee table sits in front of the couch, a few magazines spread out on it.
The kitchen is well stocked, with a microwave, coffemaker, and of course a toaster. There is an overhead pan rack hanging over the stove which has many pots, pans, and other utensils hanging from it for easy access. Three doors lead away from the kitchen and living room. Two are large, comfortable bedrooms, complete with posters on the walls, and one is a room that is furnished with a stand up punching bag, dumb bells, a treadmill, and other types of work out equipment.
It's a reasonably full house. That's what Ethan gets for having the nicest apartment, Sylar supposes, but personally, he just wants to know the outcome. He wants to know he didn't fail. And if he did, he wants to go out there and kill the people responsible so they can just start over. Wearing the same clothes he had been the previous night, his sweater now clean of blood, but torn in a couple of places and damp from being washed to the best of his ability, he's lying full-length on one of the couches, propped up against the arm of the furniture, and eyes closed. Definitely not asleep, he's just listening to the sounds of the other occupants in the apartment. When he hears something new, that's when he opens his eyes, but he's not about to get up unless it's strictly required. His gaze swivels towards the door.
There's a few noises at the doors, clicks as someone is working the key. The door opens to admit Ethan. He is dressed much better than he was the night before. His janitor outfit has been rid of, and a nicer outfit donned. Dressed in a black blazer over a white shirt and black slacks, the man is holding two plastic bags in each hand. Groceries, most likely. Stepping in the man kicks the door close behind him. As soon as he spots Sylar, his emotions almost leap off his face. Most readily compared to two teenagers separated after a crazy incident, once reunited 'Holy Shits' ensue. Walking to the counter, he lifts the bags and sets them down before looking back to Sylar. "Holy fuck, 'e's fuckin' annoyin' innut he?" The man asks with brows arched.
"Fido? I told you," Sylar says, blandly, "that I didn't like him." Now, he rests a hand against the back of the couch, and pulls himself up to sit completely, as if the leverage is needed. Despite this, he manages to stand in one smooth movement, pacing a little closer towards Ethan and looking him over, noting the change of clothing, as well as the groceries brought back, before looking again at the other man's eyes. "Did you kill him?" There's something hopeful in his tone - unclear as to what answer he's hoping for, an eyebrow raising.
A wishful expression floats over Ethan's features for a moment. Bringing his hands up the man rests against the counter as he eyes Sylar. "No.." He says sadly, "That will be a special occasion we save for a rainyday to cheer us up." Ethan says, even though it is said in a mildly joking way. It is a promise. "We will beat the fuck out of 'im." The man says as he turns to the plastic bags. Pulling down the plastic he reveals booze. One bag only contains booze. Two six packs of Mike's Hard Lemonade, a decidedly girl drink. Perhaps he likes the flavor. "Drink?" A few bottles of Corona are also possible. "Drink?" He asks over his shoulder.
Sylar's gaze tracks down from Ethan's back, towards the offered drinks. With a rustle of plastic, one of Coronas arcs out of the grocery bag, over Ethan's shoulder and into Sylar's waiting hand, and he glances down at the label. He doesn't tend to drink, but anyone deserves a beer (or four) after last night. Not opening it yet, he looks back at Ethan. "Did you get what you wanted?" He almost doesn't want to ask - the idea of letting Fido shoot him for nothing is shudder-worthy, but his head cants to the side and he points out, "You're looking healthy for a man who got stabbed in the stomach with a mop." That's followed with a look before telekinetically ripping the metal cap off the beer, taking a sip. Yeah. He remembers the mop.
Turning around with a bottle tipped up into his mouth, the man gives a bit of a sympathetic frown. "They 'ave a 'ealer." Ethan delivers quickly. He recognizes it's not fair that Sylar still has a wound while he himself was completely relieved from his. "I have a GPS tracker in 'er purse." He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a sleek black plastic box. "Also.. A few 'airs. Perfect for framin' ah?" Ethan asks with a bit of a smile to the man, trying to cheer him up a tad.
A healer. Of that, Sylar wasn't aware, and it's obvious from the faintly surprised and simultaneously intrigued expression on his face. "I wonder if it works on herself," he muses, and it really can't be much of a leap as to why he'd wonder such a thing, and he takes another sip of beer. The effort to cheer him up more confuses the killer, who may not yet be aware of all the inner workings of this group, looking from the plastic box to Ethan. "Then it wasn't a waste of time," he concludes, but he has to ask… "Why frame them at all? Between me, you, Wu-Long and Kazimir, we could hunt them down. One by one."
Placing the little plastic box back in his coat pocket Ethan straightens. "That was exactly my first thought also. Regardless it could be rather helpful if we could get that goodie for you." Ethan says softly to the other killer. Taking his own drink he goes to sit on one of the lounge chairs. Sitting back and relaxing he listens to his question to respond. "Of course we could. But what's that? A couple dead terrorists? We're going big picture, Sylar. We're going to start a fuckin' war." Ethan says as he tips another sip.
Sylar mostly stays where he is, rolling the bottle of Corona between his hands, as if restless. Or perhaps overtired, who knows if he's slept between the last time Ethan's seen him and now? Logic says he probably has, but that would also involve trust. "A war," he echoes. "I've seen Evolved destroy each other, destroy themselves. The man who blew this city sky high was just some nice guy with too much power. But how does this lead me towards a gold mine?" He doesn't forget these sorts of offers - he doesn't actually forget anything, but.
"Take your fuckin' pick." Ethan murmurs as he relaxes. "Take any of them you want. It works towards the goal. We'll be drawin' em in by the fuckin' hundreds. You'll get this healer girl eventually. But you 'ave to 'ave a bit of patience. But it's not like you're goin' fuckin' starvin'." Ethan murmurs, raising a brow. A reference to something or someone perhaps? "So 'ow long you been in the killin' business, Sylar?" Ethan asks casually.
From inside the bedroom, Sylar will detect the sound of bare feet upon the carpet, followed by skin brushing against metal and tendons flexing as a small hand closes around the handle, hesitant. A moment later, the door opens and Munin pokes her head out like a turtle emerging from its shell with a pair of giant reading glasses perched upon her nose. It's hard to say which is more comical: the size of her eyes, magnified behind the lenses, or the owlish way she blinks at them when she sees Ethan and Sylar together. Saying nothing at first, she emerges from the bedroom, a copy of Peter Hessler's 'River Town: Two Years on the Yangtze' tucked under one arm.
"Glad to see you're in one piece."
He could argue that. Starving. And for a moment, it looks like he wants to as Ethan's smalltalk question goes unanswered for a few seconds, but if there's one thing Sylar is slowly learning, it's choosing his battles - about what, and with who. Finally, he moves away from the kitchen, and the glass bottle in his hand goes a little cloudy, a hint of ice drifting from the tip. Unlike the English, he'll take his beer cool, thank you. "Two and a half years," he says, finding a place to carefully sit down, not wanting to rip the stitches - both the older ones close to his shoulder and the fresh ones in his side. "Seems like it should be longer." It's then he hears Munin's approach, gaze breaking from Ethan's to look towards that door expectantly. "But I guess it will be eventually," he adds, and then Munin appears, and he falls silent to allow them to converse, indulging in the drink in his hand.
Perking up for the moment Ethan looks over his shoulder to Munin. "'Ey there Princess. Booze if you want it. And ah, some food in the other bag. I'll put it away in a bit." The Brit says, though for now lounging seems to suit Ethan just fine. "How was your day lovely?" The elder man asks of the young woman, looking over from his lounge chair. He may have gotten up to greet her properly, but after his last couple of nights.. Ethan sits.
Munin glances at the beer and with a small smile simply shakes her head in response as she crosses to the kitchen, sets her book down on the counter and begins unpacking the bag for him. He says he'll get to it, but she wants to make sure the things that need to stay cold get put into the refrigerator before he forgets. "It was quiet," she says, though she doesn't elaborate more than that. "I didn't mean to interrupt you — I just wanted to be sure you were all right." After stitching up Sylar and Wu-Long the previous night, she's spent most of the afternoon dreading what Ethan must look like. Now that he's home, her relief is evident — movements slow, measured and relaxed. She's in no rush, content to listen to the men converse while she works in the kitchen.
Amato has arrived.
Not all of us get healers, after all. Sylar watches Munin and Ethan's exchange with interest he doesn't bother to disguise, as if observing the interaction like it were a fascinating thing. And in some respects, it is. And makes something Ethan had previously brought up with Sylar make a little more sense. With a twist of a smirk, he sips his beer, then refocuses his gaze back towards Ethan. "What about you?" he asks, gently, a nudge back to their chosen topic of conversation. Murder, naturally. "For how long?"
Glancing to Munin, Ethan grins a bit. Perfect way to get someone else to do what you don't want to do. Act like you want to do it. "Not interrupting." He clarifies. "You're as welcome 'ere as I am. You want to watch some shows or some shit?" He motions to the flatscreen, and moves to grab the controller off the pedestal next to his chair. Then finally he looks back to Sylar. "A tad bit longer than you." The man says, his features pulling down a bit. "Thirteen years old, I think it was. I reckon that was my first kill." The man says with a shrug. He's certainly not proud of it, the slump in his shoulders makes that apparent. "Once I enlisted I did quite a bit of it. Then finally got out of black ops.. Got married." Everyone else knows this story. "Had a few children. And the rest is 'istory." He says taking a decidedly long pull from his beer.
Munin gives Ethan another shake of her head. As nice as the flatscreen is, it's something of a foreign anomaly in the young woman's eyes. Strange. Alien. She hasn't lived anywhere with a television since she was about fourteen, and she can't say that she misses it much; leave her alone in an empty room with a box full of odds and ends and she'll find a way to entertain herself for a few hours. She's simple that way.
As she listens to Ethan's story — the abbreviated version — the faint smile on her lips twitches into a frown, and she finds herself resisting the urge to look over at him. Seeing his face would only make things sadder than they already are.
"You must really trust your neighbors," comes a remark with the opening of the unlocked door in a familiar if hard-to-place accent. Amato swings himself around the apartment's front doorframe, and closes the panel behind him, making a show of turning the deadbolt. "You're getting sloppy, Ethan," he chides playfully, but that smile he wears is obviously, and terribly thin. Under one arm, bright against the dark wool of the man's coat, is that nearly everpresent folded newspaper. Glancing to Munin, Amato nods. "We have done deeds worthy of print, my dear." Sylar is ignored. Pointedly.
There are obviously more questions Sylar wishes to ask, especially when what he's sure is the interesting part is glossed over and dismissed as 'history'. But conversation is put on hold when someone not-so-new enters, demonstrating the locks and addressing the other two occupants of the room. Amato is finds himself under the scrutiny of a fixed gaze from the otherwise relaxed Sylar, in the way a dog might track the progression of a small, edible animal outside the window. More curious with only a hint of predator. He silences again.
As the door knob twists, Ethan's eyes widen slightly. He didn't lock the door. Jerking his head to his side, a pistol is half-drawn before Amato's voice sounds out. He releases the handgun and brings his hand back out to his lap. Amato is greeted with a glare and a roll of the eyes. Glancing back again to Sylar, the man smirks a bit at the man's reaction to Amato's entrance. His eyes trace up to Amato, and his newspaper. "What the fuck did you do? Cat away and the fuckin' Italian will play?"
The look Munin slides in Amato's direction is difficult to read. Her pale green eyes are turbulent with a sudden surge of mixed emotions, and if he looks carefully he might notice her chest rising and falling just a little faster than normal. Sylar, on the other hand, will almost certainly hear her heart rate quickening. Her gaze drops to the paper he carries under his arm and her eyes squeeze shut — it seems she isn't nearly as proud of today's headlines as he is.
But it isn't a headline. The paper that Amato pulls from under his arm and drops in Ethan's lap, over his pistol, is turned to a page deep within the A-section. In fact, the article he goes on to talk about is quite short and lacks quite a bit of information.
"What I can't figure out," he says, looking between the distressed Munin and the sour-pussed Ethan, "is why there is no mention of the little note. All I can come up with is that they don't want to give Pariah any more press than is absolutely necessary, but one would think that they would leap at the chance of blaming the death of a guilt-ridden college-student who happens to be a somewhat pretty, by American standards, at least, young blonde woman, on a known terrorist organization. It absolutely perplexes me." And obviously, Amato dislikes being perplexed. The tone of voice he uses isn't a common one for him, reserved for moments of high annoyance.
Such nuances and changes in the ambience only Sylar can detect in this room aren't ignorable, and his gaze drags reluctantly from Amato towards Munin. He's not so much puzzled by her distress, visible and audible as it is, as much as it makes him interested in the cause behind it. Is this a bad day too? his voice sounds only within her head, although the lack of telepathic link back to his own doesn't mean that this is a question he requires an answer to.
Reading the paper quickly, Ethan's eyes jerk up to Amato in irritation. "What little note?" The Wolf asks angrily of the Italian man. The thought that the man would do something Ethan didn't order him to do just rubs against him. Though after a moment he settles on it. They were having such a nice, if sad, conversation before he came. Throwing the newspaper on his pedestal beside the chair, Ethan lets out a deep exhale. He looks to Munin then back to Amato. "You took 'er?" A slight frown. You took the confused with conscience girl to kill someone? But that goes unsaid for now. He stares up at Amato. "I never received any requests for such a mission." The man states, watching Amato levelly.
"He needed someone to watch the doors," Munin explains, answering for Amato as she closes the refrigerator door and discards the empty bag in the trash. She gives no outward indication that Sylar's disembodied voice is floating around in her head, but she isn't Dina — she hears him as clearly as she hears Ethan and Amato. "Going alone would'a been an unnecessary risk." He also needed her to find a dealer who was willing to sell them some tainted heroin, but she decides to leave that part out. Somehow, she doubts Ethan's mood would improve if he knew. "'Sides," she adds demurely, "you weren't around to ask."
Amato, however, remains somewhat cool in the face of Ethan's judgment. "That is because this 'mission' was in concordance with the Work - the mission we have all be tasked with. The late Cynthia Meyers was a registered Evolved, a telekinetic, and quite the lustful little harlot." Who wouldn't be, in a physic department with looks like hers? "She also volunteered for the Mitchell campaign on her campus. The note simply stated that silly motto they boast. I suppose they think putting it in Latin makes them look more legitimate." Amato puffs out a breath of air with a snorting sort of humpf, shaking his head.
Looking to Munin, Amato narrows his eyes with concern. "People don't bowl /alone/, Ethan," he states, but he slowly crosses the room toward the girl, his expression inquisitive of her mood, though he can guess at the answer. He's glad of her input, and it alters his face, giving him the smallest of smiles. Still clothed in his coat and gloves, Amato opens his arms for a hug as he enters the kitchen.
Sylar tilts his head to the side, enough to see the discarded newspaper, able to read the fine print from where he's seated despite the distance. Though Amato's barely glanced his way since his arrival, Sylar feels moved to contribute to the conversation anyway - even if only Ethan and perhaps Munin might take heed. "You don't need to blame them for things they didn't do," he says. "They're sheep. They can be lead astray if you need something new."
Watching Amato, Ethan simply shakes his head. "I'm going to set 'im on fire." The Wolf whispers through clenched teeth. His favorite way of communicating with Sylar in secret. He doesn't respond to Amato. Ethan is a cold and calculating man, if he were to exact revenge on Amato, it would certainly come at a later time. At the right time. Taking another long pull of his beer, finishing it off Ethan makes a 'baa' sound at Sylar's murmur of sheep. Putting the empty bottle next to him, Ethan lounges back in his chair.
Munin heeds Sylar's words, but it isn't likely she understands them. Not fully, anyway. She looks as though she's about to ask for clarification, but any questions she might've voiced are cut short when Amato enters the kitchen in search of a hug.
He isn't going to get one.
Munin places one hand on his chest as soon as he's close enough, ducking under one of his outstretched arms as she sidesteps, brushes her back against the counter, her hips against his flank, and ultimately moves past him.
It's probably a good thing no one can see the expression on Amato's face when Munin slides past him avoiding - refusing - the hug and the apology that would have come with it. Closing his eyes, Amato grits his teeth and exhales a shuddering breath that only Sylar would be able to hear. It's really quite unfair that all their inner feelings, borne by their subtle, otherwise practically invisible physiological counterparts, are laid bare to the Vanguards newest 'recruit.'
Rather than return to the living room, Amato lowers his arms slowly and ventures a bit further into the kitchen to begin making tea. Ethan and Munin are both English. There /has/ to be a kettle and a few bags lying about somewhere.
So much for contributing to the conversation. Not something Sylar actually intended to kill (force of habit?) but then again, judging by the tension that suddenly changes an ambience only he can hear, it's likely he didn't need to say anything at all. Sylar gives a sidelong glance at Ethan and smirks a little, which is the only indication that he didn't actually take Ethan seriously, even as he projects in the Wolf's head with, I could help. I don't think Kazimir's right hand likes me very much anyway. And oh no, it's not going to be Sylar who alleviates the tension - like he told Wu-Long, he's not here for morale boosting. He just finishes off his beer as well, sets the bottle aside, and extends a hand towards the door. With metallic clicks, the locks all come undone at once, and he gets to his feet, looking back at Ethan. "Unless you need anything else," he adds to the unspoken 'I'm leaving' announcement.
Munin picks up her book on the way out of the kitchen and retreats back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her with a gentle — if pointed — click. Whatever is rubbing her the wrong way must be rubbing her hard; any other day of the week, she'd jump at the opportunity to socialize with Amato and Ethan over tea.
While she presumably returns to the warmth of Ethan's bed with her copy of 'River Town: Two Years on the Yangtze', a very different scene plays out on the other side of the door and ends with the window sliding back into place. Unfortunately, the only person who's able to hear it will probably gone by the time Munin's feet touch down on the sidewalk outside, her pea coat buttoned all the way up to her chin, cashmere scarf draped loosely around her neck for warmth. She needs to be somewhere, anywhere, that isn't here.
Truth be told, the tea isn't as much for Amato as it is something for him to do to in the kitchen to save face. The water is lukewarm when he pulls it from the kettle, which is then returned to the stove to finish boiling. He doesn't let the bag stay in the mug long before he's sipping at it. It's weak tea, but it's tea…or tea-ish at least. And drinking it gives Amato another excuse for staying in the kitchen while he regains his composure, back to the living room.
The slightly tea-flavored water is finished relatively quickly, and Amato has no other choice than to return and be somewhat sociable. There is little color in his pale face, though, and he leans a shoulder against the kitchen doorframe in a very un-Amato-like posture. "I assume you don't have that lock yet, Ethan," he says in a deadpan, either bored or mentally elsewhere. He glances to Sylar, frowning at the needless use of his ability, promising himself that it is a sight he won't see often. Some people have better judgment than others.
Glancing over to Sylar's exit then to Amato the Wolf frowns at the man as he stands up. Reaching into his coat pocket he flicks a small plastic box over to the man. "Yeah, I fuckin' got it." He rumbles as he moves into the kitchen, throwing away used bottles and plastic bags.
That's a no. Sylar looks once towards Amato before heading for the door, reaching out for the handle. Because he doesn't use his power for every— never mind, the door jerks open an inch before he can even touch it, but… yet another force of habit. He has a few. Without a word, he slips out of the apartment, presumably to go home for the first time in twelve or so hours.
It is Amato's firm belief that his ability is a gift from God, but unlike the hordes of Evolved who have 'fallen' by not doing God's will with their angelic powers, he has retained his standing with the Lord by bearing the banner of Heaven in this war upon the Earth for the safety and well-being of those humans who inhabit it.
And right now, Amato isn't feeling very angelic.
He slips the box into a pocket inside the breast of his coat and starts for the door. "I will have your information by dawn," he promises in that same dull, distracted tone of voice. Wordlessly, the door is once again opened and closed, and Ethan is left alone though unaware in his apartment.
 November 7th: Three's a Crowd |
 November 7th: Mio Fratellino Romero |