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| Scene Title | Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Kazimir catches his covert operations team up to speed on his condition, and discovers that King has been killed. Shit proceeds to hit a fan spinning on high, and we get one step closer to Armageddon. |
| Date | January 17, 2009 |
Jersey City, Warehouse District
It's nearly the end of the world.
The sky is covered by a thick blanket of clouds, light snow falls silently over the frozen ground surrounding old and decrepit warehouses. Even before the fallout cloud, Jersey City wasn't a nice place; wasn't a clean place. Now it's detriments are just hilighted for the few who brave the radiation levels to see more plainly.
Gathered at one of the warehouses, a small army of mercenaries and ideological fighters gather around the completed framework of a Russian T-80 armored assault vehicle. Rows of soldiers standing at attention, mixed between tagless uniforms and ragged guerilla-warfare urban camouflage. Atop the tank, a single man sits with a rocket launcher draped across his lap, legs crossed and shoulders slouching, his short-cropped blonde hair hid by the black knit cap over his head.
"So, wha' you're sayin' is, Kazimir's givin' our orda's through you?" Drake rests his wrists against his knees, slouching forward to get a better look at the tall and pale man dressed in black, "Trustin' side of me put aside for a moment, innit jus' a bit odd? Hans," Drake snaps his fingers, motioning down to his superior as if they had equal rank.
The enormous soldier looks up, one brow raised to Drake in half-annoyance, half-expectance, "Mmn?" It's his mumbled response, focus shifting for only a moment from Sylar's smirking form to Drake before returning to the stranger again.
"What's the confirmation code we use, for captives returned?" Drake climbs down from atop the tank, shouldering the rocket launcher as he moves, shifting untrusting eyes to the man he has been given no reason to suspect is actually his master. A lie is simply easier to explain than the truth.
"Mmn, yes, that… would suffice." Hans unfolds his arms and leans away from the tanks treads, walking across the floor to stand toe-to-toe with Sylar, looking down at the man with marked scrutiny. "If Herr Volken sent you, you'd know information protocol. What is the code phrase, Sylar?" Bluee eyes narrow, watching Sylar carefully.
There's a long, silent moment, followed by the grating of teeth and a clenched jaw. One hand moves upwards, directing telekinesis to grasp Hans by the throat, lifting him up off of his feet with legs kicking in the air. "There isn't any protocol. When an operative is returned from MIA status, they're killed and presumed comprimised." A flick of two fingers, and Hans is hurled back towards the tank, landing on his back in a slow skid. The sound of automatic weapons being primed and raised come as a cacophonic chorus, one of which being far largr and far more dangerous than the others.
The long-barreled anti-vehicular sniper rifle looming from the upper balcony, in the possession of a tired-eyed blonde woman in urban camouflage looks particularly menacing amongst the group. "If you have time to play games with me, I'll report this back to Kazimir." Sometimes its easier to lie, other times its easier to threaten.
Drake looks down to Hans, offering the soldier a hand which is quickly and shakily grasped, allowing him to yank the other soldier to his feet. "Boss sure did send ya, so Mister Sylar, 'xactly what is it tha's changin' 'bout our plans?" As Drake speaks, a man in a tattered green jacket quietly eases out from behind the tank, eyes sunken and head bowed, listening in mild disinterest to what Kazimir's new host has to say.
"Hans, I require you and one-hundred of your men return with me to Queens. You'll be occupying and locking down the Eagle Electric facility, protecting the two geneticists and their test subjects until such a time as the viral agent can be prepared to be shipped." Taking charge amidst the lie of Sylar's promotion, Kazimir motions to Rico, "I need you and King to head for the Invierno with one of the mortar launchers, you'll recieve further others— "
"Sir." Rico drawls out, flicking his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue, "Senior King is dead." The words come thorugh Sylar like a gunshot, plans shattering under the heavy burden of one of his most trusted and useful tools being unavailable. Not at the loss of life, but at the loss of utility. "A few days back — Ethan Holden, Sir. King fucked up, and he's dead." The room grows quiet, as does Kazimir as he begins to pace back and forth across the concrete floor.
"Just you then." He finally replies, "You and your whole contingent of men." There's a quick passage from the mild hurt of knowing King has died before he was scheduled to, but in the end that is what one man's life amount to in Kazimir's eyes; a number and a date. "Bring all of them back to the Invierno, and await further orders."
"Sir." Rico says in a mumbled tone of voice, slowly nodding his head. The color drains from his face a bit, and as he turns away, Kazimir's focus shifts to Drake, one gloved hand motioning towards the former SAS officer.
"Drake, I need you to secure your best men with mechanized training to prepare the T-80 for movement on the freight train." He glances up to the tank, then back to Drake, "With King dead you're going to need to pull his slack, I'm assigning you to Sea-View. Prepare with fifty soldiers and one of the grenade launchers, send the rest to the Consolodated Edison plant once you recieve my orders."
Drake gives a dutiful, if not somewhat surprised nod of his head, shifting his focus towards Ellinka up in the catwalk. Kazimir, too, focuses all of his attention on the sniper. "I want you to remain at your perch, watch this facility. The remaining soldiers are to guard this compound and will recieve orders by the end of next week. Special orders will be delivered to you, Ellinka." The sniper doesn't nod, so much as merely retain her focus on the young man until he is done; statuesque in her silence.
Kazimir lingers his gaze on the group, then rolls his tongue across the inside of his cheek, "I have more work to do. If you require contact, you'll go through me now, not Kazimir. Follow the usual channels." Nothing with this is settling right with Rico, and his anxiety is noted by the angel of death perched up on the catwalk above him.
Nothing about this is right anymore.
And from Rico's perspective, nothing can change it.
 January 17th: Met A Girl |
 January 17th: Someones Going To Be In Trouble |