Private Care


dina_icon.gif kazimir_icon.gif munin_icon.gif sylar_icon.gif

Scene Title Private Care
Synopsis Sponge baths ensue.
Date November 9, 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."

The ride home is less than pleasant. She comforts herself knowing that at least she's ruining Ethan's upholstery. Finally they're back, and Dina gets out of the car, moving to carry Munin in. "I've got the wee bit." she tells Amato insistently. "Y'r leg might give out and send y' both to the ground." Plus they're both already gooful.

Getting out of the car, Sylar has been silent for most of the ride back to the facilities - big surprise there. It's a thoughtful sort of silence, actually, as if mulling over a particularly interesting piece of information, one he's not sure what to do with. His blue woolen coat is spoiled with dark, congealing blood along the front, and his hands are smeared with the viscous red liquid along with whatever else is found in gray matter. He grips a hand around his arm, just beneath his wrist, and makes a face. The laser went bone deep, after all, and it's going to ache for a little while even if it's not entirely broken. As Ethan and Amato veer away to perhaps discuss (re: argue over) what went down, both the blunt instruments of the mission head indoors with the unconscious Munin.

Munin, only five feet two inches tall and a mere ninety-something pounds, gives Dina very little trouble when she's hoisted out of the car. Partly, it has to do with the fact that most of her mass is dead weight; her legs dangle, limp, head resting against the other woman's shoulder as she carries her inside. Only a few drops of blood drip from her body during the journey, leaving a series of coin-sized stains on the pavement underfoot — and while they glisten, fresh and wet, their sheen illuminated by the light of the moon, their colour won't be truly visible until morning.

Dina goes inside, carrying Munin. Sadly, she's not THAT much bigger than Munin, and 90 lbs of dead weight would be a bit, except that she's pretty damn athletic. She heads into the large building. Thankfully, Ethan's little shooting match the other night means there's furniture about, and Dina carries Munin over to a table, laying the girl on it. She looks over to Sylar. "I need a bucket'a water." That said, she heads for that enormous navy duffle she came in with the night she first met him.

He moves to stand quietly beside Munin once she's draped onto the table, looking down at the girl's prone form. It's not really in him to do anything affectionate even if he felt it, like push aside the hair on her forehead, or touch her hand - it's just not a part of who he is, like a section of his persona cut out and filled in with something less than human. Despite this, Sylar doesn't exactly look happy about this situation, keeping his hand still wrapped about his arm. Dina's statement makes him look up, and after a moment, there's a distant scrape - an exceedingly dusty plastic bucket comes rolling out from it's shadowed hiding place, bouncing along the cement floor to come rest a few feet from Dina. Obviously, it's not filled with water, but hey. Bucket. He remembers, as he's wont to do, seeing it during the daylight.


The distant and muffled sound is something Sylar is familiar with, the too-slow beating of a heart that could not possibly sustain life.


It is accompanied by the approaching sound of footsteps, coming from the floor above, circling through one of the many abandoned office spaces, then into the stairwell. Eventually, the sound of hard-soled shoes metered out by the rythmic click of a steel-tipped cane on concrete steps can be heard by all those in the abandoned facility.


One of the steel doors creaks open with a twist of the rusted old handle. From within emerges Kazimir's black silhouette, the dark of his suit blending into the corrugated metal walls behind him that sit sunken into gloom as well. It is only when he passes thorugh pale shafts of moonlight cast through high windows that his weathered face and wavy gray hair can be seen.


There is no conversation in his approach, only the surveying of pale blue eyes on a familiar young face, that of his demolitions expert Dina, and then that of the blood-spattered and motionless form of Munin. He is given pause in his approach by this, faint wisps of black rising up around his arms in ephemeral tendrils of ashen shadow. Soon, though, they fade back into his body like stalking vipers.


Again approaching, there is finally a vocalization for his discomfort, brow lowered and blue eyes affixed on Munin's form. There is no greeting for Dina, she was expected. "How is she?" It's the first sign of something that might be construed as compassion that Kazimir has ever afforded anyone, let alone Munin. His eyes divert over to Sylar, then Dina, then back down to Munin. One black-gloved hand reaches out, lightly brushing a lock of blood-stained hair from her face, his hand turninig to one side to brush leather-covered knuckles over her cheek.

It's a good thing that Dina's established she didn't know who Sylar is…because otherwise she probably wouldn't talk to him this way. Or maybe she would; it IS Dina. "Water, y' bloody shite-for-brains gobsmack Yank! I can't clean and bandage her with an empty bucket, now can I?!" She snaps. Meanwhile, she's starting to strip Munin; getting the girl's clothes off her and tossed to the side as quickly as she can. She won't know how bad the wounds are till she can get at them, and get her washed off…right now there's too much a mix of her blood and the bonewoman's blood to tell anything. She looks over at Kazimir's commentary. "Not well" is her initial, and terse, answer, before adding more. "She got poked up by some kinda mutant zombie focker. On toppa that, looked like she couldn't breathe a bit, and I think she mighta got tackled down. I'll know more once I get her patched up." Any concern for rendering the teen increasingly naked in front of Kaz and Sylar doesn't look to have even crossed her mind. Dina's in Practical Mode.

The verbal abuse hurled at Sylar doesn't gain a reaction - perhaps it'd be better for him to snap back at her then let bygones be bygones. No, instead, it's just filed away, and he rolls his shoulders as if trying to get his muscles to relax. There's a time and place for punishment, and now is certainly not the time. There's another scrape of plastic against cement as he summons the bucket into his hand, but he doesn't go for water yet - he listens to the steady, unnatural heart beat of Kazimir's from when he first picks it up, to the point wherein the man is standing just beside the table. As Dina gives her diagnosis, it's then he steps back, walking away with long strides towards where he knows there's a working faucet. He's cleaned his clothes here a couple of times.

"She has athsma." Kazimir's informative expression confers little, save that his eyes never depart from Munin, steady and focused, though his countenance remains remarkably neutral. His head does turn though, towards the wall facing the parking lot when the faintest suggestion of a raised voice can be heard. One brow raises, until he considers the pair of usual suspects that are missing, and turns his attention to Gabriel. "Mister Gray," He intones, "Insure that Munin does not succumb to her injuries. Her death would be a crippling loss to us." He lowers his gaze down towards Munin again, withdrawing his gloved hand from her cheek finally.

"Dina," Kazimir's voice is quiet and stern, "Tend to her wounds. If she is injured, Gabriel should be able to discern the nature of her injuries and what is wrong with her," His eyes divert momentarially over to Sylar, "if he puts his mind to it." His gaze drifts back to Dina again, "If there are complications…" His hand reaches into his jacket, removing an overly large cell-phone to rest on the table, "Use the sat-phone to call Elias and have him transport her to our hospital in the Balkans; He knows where it is."

Kazimir turns slowly, moving towards the door that leads out into the warehouse, "I will be recieving a status report from Ethan." He pauses in mid-stride, looking over his shoulder. His eyes study Gabriel for a short time, drifting up and down the dark-haired man, and then wordlessly Kazimir slips out another door and towards the sounds of Ethan and Amato's voices.

Dina's dripping with goo herself, and so she yanks off her own shirt, so she can rip off a clean patch (not like this thing is getting salvaged anyhow), and starts to carefully dunk the cloth, wash off the girl. Rinse, repeat. Literally. Over the course of ten minutes or so, she's got Munin de-gooed, and gotten her own arms de-gooed just from working on her. "All right. None too bad there…a few scrapes and scratches." And she -does- have a first aid kit in that duffle. She grabs it, and starts to bandage her up, patching up the scrapes. "C'mon, wee bit. Time to wake up." She applies smelling salts for that very purpose.

Sylar. Sy. Lar. Sylar. They will have to have another conversation about that, for what good it would do. Sylar just clenches his jaw once he's set the bucket down for Dina's use at her feet, meeting Kazimir's gaze less than readily before the elderly man departs. That little comments about his ability… He's never quite used it in that respect. To help people. Though Dina verbalises the lack of need for it here, Sylar's gaze sweeps down Munin's body as if in an attempt to try this, but perhaps the injuries are too minor for anything to trigger. He does, however, listen to the sound of Munin's breathing - the asthma attack is over, and so he alerts Dina to nothing, pacing slowly around the table to stand opposite the Irishwoman as she summons Munin awake.

Munin sputters a little when the jar of smelling salts is waved under her nose. Her eyes open, hazy and unfocused, gazing blearily up at Dina. It's probably a good thing that another woman is the first person she sees when she comes to, because she quickly becomes aware of the fact that she's colder than she should be. She starts to sit up, but doesn't lift her head more than a few inches off the table before she realizes that this is a bad idea, and slumps back against the table.

The cuts and scratches are easy enough to treat. Such injuries are superficial in comparison to the two puncture wounds on her left breast and right shoulder — the result of her struggle with the Evolved woman whose bones protruded from her body like daggers. She's lucky they didn't cut too deep; another inch or two and they might have struck something more vital than muscle. "Hnn— "

Dina reaches out to put a hand on Munin's shoulder. The unpunctured one, thankfully. "Shh…lay back, wee bit. Y' gave us all a right scare there. You're goin' to be fine." The shoulder wound really doesn't worry her TOO much…the sucking chest wound is a little worse. Thankfully it doesn't seem to go deep enough to be TOO worrysome. She looks down to Munin with some sympathy. "Y' might want to grab the table, wee bit. This'll sting a bit." She takes out the peroxide. Stinging a little bit is an understatement, and she's ready to use her other arm to hold Munin down as she applies the peroxide to the two puncture wounds.

"Wait," Sylar says, speaking up for the first time, before Dina can let the chemical sting the girl. He's no healer by stretch of the imagination, nor would he wish to be. If he even had the ability, would he even tell the others, considering how willingly his others are called upon? All the same, he reaches a hand out to hover over the wounds, looking at Dina as a clear indication to please, stop touching Munin, you void-y mick, and as soon as she does… the pain goes away. Not forever, but the sting of ruined skin saps out like he's drawing poison from a wound. Slowly, he repeats the process over the deep scrapes and cuts.

A peaceful expression settles over Munin's features, and the young woman lets out a quaking sigh through her nostrils as her eyes close again. Sylar's ears will tell him, judging by the pattern of her breathing, that she's still awake — a moment later, her lips part just enough to let a mumbled "thank you" slip past. Her heartbeat speeds up, just enough to be noticed, and she turns her head away from him, resting her cheek on the cold, gritty surface of the table for the time being. She can stress about being prone and half-naked in the middle of a shady warehouse later, when she doesn't feel like letting her mind wander will plunge her back into unconsciousness. Besides, even if he isn't Dina, even if he isn't a woman — he's Vanguard. Right now, she trusts him. Implicitly.

Dina applies antibiotic ointment…gauze pad…finally tape, to both wounds. With Munin now clean and bandaged, she reaches over to her dufflebag and pulls out a sweatshirt and sweatpants, offering them to Munin. "They'll swallow y' some, wee bit. But y' can't put back on that shite y' had on, and this'll do till y' get to y'r own things." That done, she's apparently done medic-ing for the moment, and she turns to go get HERSELF ungooed.

And Dina goes ahead and leaves. Leaves him alone with a semi-conscious young woman whom he knows has an ability to learn about. People have done smarter things, it's true, even if the woman didn't know any better. Sylar's hands come to grip the edge of the table. Just say something. "You should get dressed. It's cold in here." The words come out a little flat and awkward, and it's obvious he's talking for talking's sake.

Munin rolls onto her side, showing Sylar her back, clutching the clothes to her chest as she pauses to get her bearings. With the pain numbed, she has a much easier time pushing herself up into a sitting position and pulling the sweatshirt over her head. The sweatpants are next, and while Dina was right about them being a little too big for Munin's dimunitive frame, the elastic band keeps them from falling off her hips. Just to be safe, her small hands shakily fumble with the outfit's drawstrings in an attempt to tighten them further. Her movements are slow, laboured, but the fact that she's moving at all is a good sign.

She's moving, her wounds are seen to, and she's breathing. That ticks pretty much all the boxes for Sylar, and it doesn't really occur to him that scars might run deeper. He turns his back to her in turn as she dresses herself, and he lifts his hand to look at it, stretching out his fingers. Then, he points. From her vantage point, there's nothing to see or hear besides perhaps a rustle of fabric as the blue-green laser emitting from his fingertip burns through a white sheet covering a freight container without fire, and after a few seconds, it's gone again, hand back to being studied. "I wasn't sure that would work," he says out loud.

Munin turns her head, glancing back over her shoulder at Sylar. "You shouldn't have taken it," is her response, half-whispered, half-breathed. She hugs her arms to her chest and tucks her chin against her collarbone as if trying to curl into herself for warmth. There's a faint tremor as she fends off the shivers — even with clothes on, it's the middle of the night and this is an unheated warehouse in the middle of New York on the cusp of winter. She's cold. "There was something wrong with them." What if it happens to him too?

His fingers curl against his palm, and in a sharper movement, Sylar glances back over his shoulder at the slight girl, and he's silent for a few moments. Reacting to an unspoken concern. "They were out of control," he agrees. But there was more to that. The scent of their blood still clings to both of them and there's a certain sickliness to the scent over the smell of iron and salt. They'd been in pain from more than just their abilities. They'd dissolved. And what he had seen. "It wasn't even theirs."

"They melted." When Munin speaks, it's very matter-of-fact. All her emotional energy was spent earlier in the evening, back at the park where terror consumed her. Right now, there's not much left for her to feel except for the lingering aftereffects, and she keeps those to herself, not wanting to appear weaker than she already is. "I don't want you to melt."

"I won't," Sylar says, a reassurance for both of them. Does he know? Not really. He doesn't understand what happened in the park and perhaps the one piece of evidence, the frozen corpse of the crazed Evolved, had been destroyed already by his hand. His hands come up to rub wearily at his face, before he takes his weight off the table, moving around it to stand closer to her so that they're not back to back. "All powers are different. Unique. Special. But they all died the same. It's something else."

Munin feels her throat contract, swallow, though she has no real control over the motions. It's a reflex, and her mouth is suddenly feeling very dry. "Maybe they were sick," she suggests quietly. "Maybe— " This time, she stops herself before she gets any further. They can speculate all night about what happened, but speculation does not lead to answers. Only more questions. "I don't know. I didn't really see— " She was too busy trying not to die. "It happened so fast. I can't even remember most of it."

"Doesn't matter," Sylar says, gaze dropping down to adjust the cuffs of his sleeves, tucking the shirt sleeves so they align better with that of his coat's. "They're dead now." He can hear Dina in another corner of the warehouse, no doubt attempting to clean herself of gore without thinking about it too hard, and he looks back at Munin. "And we're not." And in this world, that's all the reassurance one should need. He turns his shoulder to her with the intent to head for the exit - likely not to join the conversation between the three masterminds of the group, but to go home.

Munin doesn't stop him. She remains on the table, shrouded in the shadows of the warehouse, her dark-haired head angled in such a way that she too can hear Dina and the distant sound of water splashing in a sink's basin. Either she wants to be alone, or she knows he probably wouldn't stay even if she asked him to — whatever the reason for her stony silence, she seems comfortable with it.

Unlike Sylar, Munin's permanent home is with the Vanguard, wherever the majority of them may be… and with Dina somewhere nearby and the trio of men outside, there is no home for her to go to.

She's already there.

November 9th: Turnabout

Previously in this storyline…

Next in this storyline…

November 10th: That's So Johnny Snow
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