Participants:
| Scene Title | Rearrangements |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The best-laid plans are laid to waste unless you can adapt to the variables given. Sylar and Kazimir discuss one, and another interrupts them. |
| Date | November 12, 2008 |
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 droning sound of rain hitting the aluminum roof of the Eagle Electric warehouse creates a steady and soft background noise that fills the large structure, amplifying the sound to something that resembles the soft roar of a waterfall. It is a peaceful, serene sound, coupled with the addition of drops and drips of water that come through rusted holes in the ceiling to shallow puddles in low spots of the concrete floor. It is hours like this, in the dead of night set amidst the industrial wasteland of Long Island City, where Kazimir collects his thoughts and pieces together his plans. It is this time when he is idle, when he remains to think and not act. But with how little the Vanguard sees of him, it does beg the question — what does he do with all his time?
Seated upon the high-backed chair swathed in white cloth atop a dais of shrouded wooden palettes, Kazimir Volken looks much like a thoughtful statue. His cane lays draped across his lap, and both elbows rest on the arm-rests of the chair, head bowed forward and fingers folded to shroud his eyes. To the uninitiated, it almost appears as though he's asleep sitting up. But evil, espescially evil like Kazimir Volken, never truly sleeps.
Sometimes it's best to not to wake the sleeping dragon. For a good long while, Sylar considers this - currently standing atop the roof of the warehouse. A meeting that's ended, perhaps, or maybe he doesn't have many places he can go and reflect without needing to wear a different face. Maybe, he's trying to be as findable as possible - but the skies, currently, are clear of birds. And he can hear another presence beneath his feet.
Footsteps, the most mundane of heralds, nevertheless act as his presence's announcement as he enters into the main warehouse room. Standing just at the door way, Sylar moves towards said sleeping dragon on his throne, glass and debris cracking underfoot as he walks, dressed entirely in black and looking much more like him than his day to day disguise of Gabriel Wilkens.
"Kazimir," Sylar says as he approaches, quietly - and yet, his voice still seems to echo.
"Gabriel," Kazimir's voice is not as filled with its usual whimsy towards his protege, "Your pet was putting her nose in places it most certainly was not invited to today." Hands move to settle down from Kazimir's brow, weathered old palms coming to rest on the black-lacquered haft of his cane. "This would not have been as much as a problem, were it not for her…" One hand raises, waving as if at some ephemeral point just out of reach, "Display."
Blue eyes settle on Sylar again, their softness gone. "I had presumed that Doctor Knutson was merely a scientist, and that your interest in her was purely… scientific." His head leans back, gray locks pressing against the cloth-shrouded headrest, "But her disappearing act leaves me with no other conclusion that she is not merely a human, as I had come to believe, but something else. Wherein I ask you, what… is Odessa Knutson?" He leans forward again, this time with a more intent expression on his face, gaze narrowed inspectingly.
Sylar doesn't slow his progression towards the dais, coming to stand in front of it and studying Kazimir as he speaks about the incident that's on his mind too. "Disappearing act?" he repeats, head tilting down though he keeps his eyes on the elderly man. "She's Evolved, but I don't know what she does. It was always kept secret even within the confines of the Company, and I don't think I've ever seen her use it. Or at least," and the corner of his mouth turns up, looking aloofly away, "I don't know if I have. She's tricky." As if in contrast to Kazimir's severity, Sylar's voice is whimsical, appreciative of this mystery, although when his attention veers back to Kazimir, that hint of a smile vanishes again. "What do you mean by 'disappearing act'?"
"She teleported." It's spoken rather matter-of-factly, "I had one of my operatives, Sierra Heart — I'm not sure if you two have had the pleasure of introduction yet — try to bring her to me." His lips purse slightly, "She vanished from sight without a trace. I had Sierra sweep the location, and she was nowhere to be found." Blue eyes drift from Sylar to one of the broken pieces of glass nearby, then back again, "I need to be certain that the people I trust with sensitive information are trustworthy, Gabriel." One gray brow raises slowly, "If Doctor Knutson cannot be trusted, then I trust you to take care of her, in a manner I believe you would benefit most from."
Sylar, to his credit, keeps his eyes trained on Kazimir, even when this suggestion is not so subtly made. Now to try and cobble together a response in the midst of a battle of urges. "I trust Doctor Knutson," he volunteers, a little stiffly. "And she's fascinated by me. Wherever I go, she'll follow, and she's smarter than to use information against us." The dais creaks, just a little, when he puts his foot on the edge of it and steps up onto the white fabric covering the wooden platform. "She's more than just a doctor, like I'm more than a watchmaker. She has the right kind of… mind for the— the Work." He doesn't talk often of the grander schemes of things, not like Amato does, and the words fall awkwardly. "If we tested her, you'd see."
Kazimir watches as Sylar makes his approach, leaning back to relax against the cloth-wrapped back of the chair with his eyes half-lidding, "Then that is what will be done." One hand raises to brush over his chin, eyes drifting to one side to peer at an angled piece of broken glass, one that earns a furrowing of his brow. "Someone cleaned in here," he murmurs disappointedly, the piece of broken mirror no longer affording him the perfect view of one wing of the warehouse.
"Amato still needs to read her. There's…" Gray brows push together, "A concern in the back of my mind I would like assuaged by his scrutiny." It seems he has yet to hear about the incident between Ethan and Amato. "I will arrange for Ethan to bring Odessa along with him during one of his operations. She needs to be tested, to see the visceral reality of what we are doing. Though perhaps not with the clarity that you have seen it." His eyes drift up and down Sylar, slowly, "Some people have weaker wills than you."
Relaxing a little more now that a temptation is no longer held out just within reach, Sylar nods once, hands coming together to fidget briefly with the cuff of his sleeve. "I took a hair from her," he says, simply. "I can bring it to Amato. I don't think Odessa much likes him. He's a religious man, she's a scientist through and through, I guess. As far as I can tell, she's always been a plaything of the Company's for as long as she's been alive." He walks along at a pace around the dais, wooden shifting and creaking underfoot as he goes, perhaps enjoying the effect it creates on a more juvenile level despite the ever-present seriousness of their conversations. "I don't know how well she's taking the outside world but I guess we'll see what happens when she goes with Ethan." And that brings him pause, jaw clenching for a moment, before looking back at Kazimir. "Or maybe it'd be better if I tested her."
"She's of no use to me if she requires your constant coddling to perform her duties." His reply is as cold and clinical as any doctor's can be. "She will learn to work well with others, just as you have." But that coldness lifts just slightly as he addresses Sylar, "Make certain that Amato recieves the hair, I want to know as much about her as I can." Blue eyes narrow slowly, "I have spent a great deal of time attempting to stay off of the Company's radar, and I will not have one bumbling young girl dismantle decades of work in the blink of an eye."
Shifting in his chair, Kazimir looks up to Sylar, blue eyes settling on darker ones, watching him closely for a moment. "If she does, however, fail to integrate. I expect you not to let her power go to waste." A moment later, Kazimir lifts a hand to reach inside the front of his suit jacket, retrieving a slip of folded paper, holding it out towards Sylar and narrowed eyes. "His name is Jamie Chambers," Eyes divert back down to the paper, then up to Sylar again, "Tier-2 Registered Evolved, classified to possess Tactile Telepathy." One brow raises slowly, as if just as curious about it as Sylar is. "His address is located in the documentation, along with public records we were able to research. He lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. You'll be needing to get in touch with Elias."
It starts as a patter, so soft only Sylar hears it at first. The sound could easily be mistaken for droplets of rain smacking against the warehouse's metal roof, but as the seconds pass and the noise gets louder and louder, it becomes apparent that the sound isn't rain at all — it's the slap of feet on the pavement outside, and it's rapidly coming closer. Before either of the men have time to react, however, a thunderous BOOM echoes through the room, causing thousands upon thousands of dust particles to become dislodged from the roof above.
Someone has just slammed into one of the rear doors and, judging by the way the handle starts to buckle and shake, is trying to get inside. As the dust filters down from the ceiling, filling the air with an almost translucent haze, a fist demands entry by pounding furiously on the door.
Sylar looks honestly prepared to argue, or at least unhappy that he's being told 'no' and giving the older man a fixed glare, but Kazimir, possibly, is smart this way, diverted the killer's attention to something that fascinates him most — more so than Odessa. Tactile Telepathy… who knows what that means, or entails, especially if he's listed as Tier Two. Sylar's willing to find out. Readily, the glare vanishes, and he starts moving towards Kazimir, fingertips brushing the paper— before his hand jerks away, looking towards the source of the sound, clearly taken by surprise - not something that happens often. Then the door begins to rattle, and fearless, Sylar steps down from the dais, leaving Kazimir behind still holding the documents, holding a hand out - and with perhaps even a louder sound, the door wrench open unwillingly, slamming back against the walls on and on their hinges.
A scowl crosses Kazimir's face only once Sylar's back is to him, one hand carefully sliding the folded piece of paper back into his jacket. The gray-haired man rises up slowly from his seated position in the chair, the creak of aged wood accompanying the moment of even more aged bones. His cane swings out, thumping on the cloth-covered wood underfoot before taking a few steps, just to the edge of the dais. He watches Sylar, more so than the door, assessing how the dark-haired man handles the unexpected situation with bravado and fearless intent. There's something approving about the way he settles himself, both hands resting atop the head of his cane, eyes shifting from Sylar to the door. He truly does fit in among the others.
The door explodes inward, which is something the person standing on the other side wasn't expecting. A shadowy figure, too small and slight to be any of the combat-ready members of the Vanguard, stumbles into the warehouse and falls onto its hands and knees. Only when she feels the concrete floor under her palms does Munin chance a glance back over her shoulder, into the darkness from which she came.
She doesn't gawk for very long, either. On all fours, she scrambles deeper into the warehouse, tripping, stumbling every time she tries climbing onto her feet. It seems getting up isn't as important as getting away.
Sylar's hand comes up as if prepared to fling the intruder into a nearby wall - but Munin's appearance is a familiar one, and so that hand withdraws, actually stepping back as if to prevent himself from attacking. With a nudge in the air of a couple of fingers, the doors swing closed, and with a twist of his wrist, they lock. "Eileen?" he says, standing still where he is before he thinks to move forward, gripping one of her arms and efficiently pulling her to her feet. "There's no one after you," he tells her, bewildered by her fear and scanning her for injury.
Like a silent sentinel, Kazimir watches from atop the dais in the way Sylar handles Munin. There is so much to see in that display between the two, in Sylar's steadied hand, in the way he brings her up to her feet. Blue eyes narrow slowly, pleased in the way that Munin seems to serve the Vanguard. It isn't the original purpose he had imagined for a tool with her skills, but the way even the most violent of members seem to become softer, gentler in her presence is something that he cannot refute. His words about her value, he considers, are more true than he had even known.
It isn't like Munin to throw her arms around anybody, but it isn't like her to fall prey to hysterics either, and that's exactly what she looks and sounds like she's about to do. She sinks her fingers into the fabric of Sylar's shirt as he hauls her to his feet, burying her face against his chest. It isn't because she prefers him over Kazimir, and it isn't because she trusts him the way she trusts Ethan or Amato — he just happens to be the closest, warmest, softest thing she has to grab hold of. Her breaths are ragged, choked, and even though her speech is thick, Sylar should have no trouble understanding the name that keeps tumbling out of her mouth.
"Peter Petrelli, Peter Petrelli, Peter Petrelli…!"
That will be the second time this week Munin has said cursed names in Sylar's presence and fairly given him a heart attack.
His heart races and for a moment he's frozen as Munin clings onto him, hands resting on her shoulders as she repeats that mantra. Peter Petrelli, Peter Petrelli. Then, he acts. Pulling the girl roughly away from him, Sylar goes down on one knee in front of her, a very sentimental caring gesture indeed. Never mind that with a subtle movement of two fingers, Munin will find herself unable to move her mouth, lips clamping together as Sylar's burns a look into her eyes. Shut up, his voice whispers harshly in her mind, even as his hands soothingly rub her arms. "Shhh," he says, more comfortingly, hyper aware of Kazimir's presence and trying not to let that derail him. "You're safe now. Why don't you slow down, take a few deep breaths." Don't say his name, drifts through her head the same time her mouth is released.
Heavy footfalls thump across the dais as Kazimir finally makes his approach. The steel tip of his cane is the first thing to hit the concrete floor, clinking soundly before he continues in his advance towards where Sylar kneels in front of Munin, "I have never seen you frightened like this before, Munin…" There is a wandering quality to Kazimir's voice, something drifting and ethereal about the way he speaks, as if the very unusual circumstance has caught him unawares. "Is she wounded, Gabriel?" Blue eyes drift to focus on the back of Sylar's head, then shift back to Munin after another moment, watching the two of them together with a scrutinizing stare.
Munin's mouth stays shut, even after Sylar relinquishes control. She follows his advice, pulling down a series of shaky breaths through her nostrils, and then letting them back out again. Her lungs burn and her legs are weak, trembling now the the adrenaline is finally starting to wear off. It isn't Sylar's verbal reassurance that eventually calms her down — it's the fact that, in the minute that follows, no one starts banging on the doors behind her. The wildness in her eyes subsides, and she shows Sylar the scrapes on her hands in response to Kazimir's question, bits of dry blood crusted between her fingers. There are also faint marks on her neck and one of her wrists that look like they might become bruises over the next few hours, though it might not be wise to point those out to the other man, lest he ask the girl how they got there.
"She's fine, just fine," Sylar says, in a tense voice that pitches just above his usual lower tone, eyes locked on Munin's even as he addresses Kazimir just behind him. "Just a few scrapes and bruises." Slowly, he gets onto his feet again, withdrawing his hands from Munin's arms and backing up a step. "Whoever scared you didn't follow you here, did they?" Of course not. The place is still standing, after all. He puts a hand on her shoulder and finally turns back towards Kazimir.
There's a strained sigh that pushes its way through Kazimir's nose, "Munin." Kazimir closes the distance, the metered clink of his cane's tip and the clack of his shoes on the concrete growing closer, until he finally stops at the side of Sylar and the young woman. "Tell me what happened." His eyes glance over her, then focus back on Gabriel, "I'm beginning to wonder if I may need to assign you permanent protection…" There's disappointment there, in that tone he uses, but at the same time an almost paternal undercurrent, that fleeting hint that he might be concerned for her life, more than her usefulness.
"I was staying away, like you asked. I— " Munin pauses, inwardly bristling at Kazimir's suggestion. As much as she appreciates the protection Vanguard provides, the idea that she might not be able to get by without it cuts deeply into her pride. "It wasn't my fault," she insists, voice soft but strong with conviction, "I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and there was nothing I could do— Agent Ivanov— He's— Agent Ivanov is dead."
Sylar moves that hand from Munin's shoulder when Kazimir approaches. He has better ways of hinting if she says something she shouldn't be saying, after all. This, however, comes out of left-field, and his eyes narrow. "Ivanov," he repeats, easily recalling the name. "Oh." And that sounds almost disappointed— hell, almost? Disappointed is an accurate word, and Sylar's shoulders even slump a little. Their game hadn't barely even started, after all, and he swivels a little to face Kazimir, "And he had such a useful ability." What a shame.
One gray brow rises slowly, "Dead?" Blue eyes shift over to Sylar for a moment, then back to Munin. with another two clicks of his cane and four steps, Kazimir has made his way directly to the young woman's side. One gloved hand reaches out, resting on her other shoulder to afford a very faint squeeze. His eyes divert down at the tactile distraction, looking to the marks on her throat, and on her arms, then back up to her eyes. He says nothing to their presence.
"One less trouble to worry of," he states in a quiet tone of voice, "There will be others." he sweeps his cane up, tucking it under one arm as he produces that slip of paper for Sylar again. "Take whomever you wish, but communicate the resources you will be expending to Ethan." The paper is held out, slowly, "As for this situation," eyes drift over to Munin slowly. "Take her somewhere warmer, safer." There's a softening of Kazimir's stony countenance for but a moment, "Not Ethan's residence, the last thing she needs is to be around Miss Heart and Doctor Knutson."
Munin holds Kazimir's gaze when he looks at her, not because she wants to, but because the affect he has on her is the same affect the stare of a snake might have on a mouse. She freezes up, shoulder stiffening beneath his hand, then relaxing again when he turns his attention back toward Sylar. No argument here.
The document is finally taken with a nod to Kazimir. As for their prior argument, that can be rehashed at a later time, and the papers are folded carefully and slipped into an expansive pocket of his long black woolen trenchcoat. "Thank you," Sylar says, unable to ignore the audible nuances of the girl just beside him that express her obvious discomfort. With one last look to Kazimir, as if contemplating all the questions burning in his throat just waiting to be asked, he finally just gives another silent nod, takes Munin's arm in a careless way, and leads them both back towards the doors.
Kazimir stands silently, watching Sylar gently guiding Munin towards the door, and his eyes settle on the slightly askance piece of broken mirror nearby. His eyes linger on it, something so simple set ever so slightly out of place that can throw even the most well-laid plans to waste. He steps over, staring down at his own reflection in the cracked mirror surface, then downturns his lips into a scowl.
Things will need rearranging.
 November 12th: From Frying Pan to Fire |
 November 12th: Repercussions |