huruma_icon.gif matt_icon.gif

Scene Title Scission
Synopsis Matt has a bad night. WARNING: MATURE CONTENT
Date September 23rd, 2008

Upper West Side

As Matt Parkman makes the drive home from the Petrelli Mansion to Dorchester Towers, he does what he promised he'd do. First, he calls Homeland Security to organize a team of officers and agents to watch the Petrelli's home in order to keep Claire Bennet as safe from Sylar as possible. He then phones Bob Bishop, leaving a message on the Primatech 'manager's' voicemail informing him of Angela Petrelli's plans to visit to check on her son.

It started to drizzle as Matt pulled away from the home of the Senator's wife and family, and by the time Parkman is off the phone, the rain is a good deal steadier. In the dim light of the streetlamps obscured by the weather, it's impossible for the Homeland Security agent to see the shard of sharp, misplaced, steel rubble in the road. Who knows how it got there, but even the smallest things have important parts to play.

The black sedan jerks as Parkman runs over the hazard, then swerves to the right into a, thankfully, open parking space on the side of the road. Outside, air hisses from the slitted tire. Inside, Parkman curses and smacks his palm against the steering wheel.

The rain can be a blessing or a curse, depending on who you ask. Water is water, but it is also bad for cars, visibility, and all of those nice things. What it is also good for is not leaving a trace; water washes many things away.

To the side of the road is also an alleyway between the wet and glistening buildings, the mouth of which sits about half a dozen feet from where Matt's sedan has come to an untimely stop. Be it Fate, Luck, or a Hunt, there is a pair of eyes on the sleek black car as it squeaks angrily into the parking space. They come from the fogged, badly drained by-way, thoughts and observation silent in the pitter-patter of the raindrops from overhead clattering onto pavement and metal lids of dumpsters and cars alike.

The door to the sedan opens and closes with a loud slam which might have been louder were it not for the drilling rain. Parkman winces uncomfortably as the rain slicks his hair down onto his forehead, his wool overcoat keeping the rest of him relatively dry as he moves around to the trunk to retrieve the jack and spare, grumbling and cursing under his breath the entire way. At least he doesn't have to sit here and wait for Triple-A.

There is recognition from the unseen face; she knows him. It's hard to forget the faces associated immediately with Level Five. The Company. Her essential and sudden enemies, of sorts. The strange woman may have seen this man for all of a minute, but it was enough. As Matt goes about getting into finding the spare tire, Huruma leans onto the slick wall of the alley to watch, and to wait. She wears the same black skirt and tanktop given to her by Jessica, though now her frame is also covered in a thin leather jacket— goodness only knows where it came from. Both of Huruma's forelimbs are tucked across her stomach, hands under the insides of the coat. One set of fingers plays over the grasp of something that very likely ends in a point, tempted and resisted.

With a grunt, Parkman retrieves the tire and sets, or rather hurls it to the ground with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. By the time he's dipped back into the trunk to grab the tire iron and jack, the small donut of rubber has bounced away from the side of the car where it was intended to rest and gone rolling on the concrete of the sidewalk.

More muttered curses, and Parkman is soon trailing after it, tire iron still gripped in one meaty hand. Due to the rain, the tire's course becomes more chaotic than usual (thank you Dr. Malcolm) and turns to go down the alley where, unbeknownst to the telepath, doom lies in wait.

It is practically like being given a silver platter. Huruma squints, suspicious as the tire moves down the sidewalk. She drops back silently into the alley for a few steps, muscles tensing and slender fingers curling around the handle of a blade under her jacket.

As expected, the tire comes wobbling into view, and Huruma takes little time in waiting; as soon as the man comes into view, the dark woman melts out of the dark and lunges toward him.

Fear lets out and rattles up Matt's spine, chill and sudden. The blade of the knife now shining into view in Huruma's hand is curved, and glistening like a menacing silver claw. Her white eyes and bared, sharp teeth flash just as bright under what streetlight seeps into the alley.

The element of surprise seems to be hers. The knife flies with one long limb to sink itself into the shoulder to the arm carrying that tire iron, and the other hand lashes out to pull Matt closer and deeper into the alleyway by his clothes.

As per her thoughts— they are bloody, angry, and as malevolent as they can get.

Those thoughts combined with that sudden fear, fear as sharp and bright as the reflective blade that comes flying out of the darkness, catches Parkman completely off guard. He stiffens and tries to turn, but that only bares his targeted shoulder more.

He cries out, letting his head fall back as the pain that shoots from his shoulder to his brain and back down to the fingertips of his right arm cause the chain reaction of muscles that release the tire iron. The metal falls to the wet pavement with a clatter, but the sound is drowned out by Parkman's guttural cry of pain paired with fear.

The only sound that Huruma makes is a feral, snarling one, deep in her chest as she pulls Parkman far back into the dark, fogged alley with her; the knife in his shoulder digs further before she literally tears it straight out, ripping more flesh as it leaves the first cut. Matt is swung around by the front of his clothes, Huruma aiming to ram him spine-first into the hard, rusty metal of a nearby dumpster. Fear is still being implanted, and the bloody thoughts in the assailant's head rise like fire.

The pain is blinding. Parkman screams until he, were he of sound mind or body right now, would be certain the sound itself would rend his vocal chords useless.

Thankfully, due to the onslaught of emotion and those horrible, murderous thoughts, it is likely that the telepath won't be conscious all that much longer. Still, with a moment of clarity, Parkman grits his teeth and does his best to push back against the torrent of bloody carnage and terrible passion coming at him.


A sharp, bodily yank tears him away from the dumpster, only to replace it with the watery, grimy ground below. Huruma looms like a harbinger of death, teeth bared and the eyes of a predator burning in her head. Why, he asks?

She answers by leaning down to pull away the coat from Matt's wounded arm, yanking it closer with a joint-wrenching movement. "Why?" Huruma echoes, mouth turning in an open, toothy smile, her words mocking, laughing, rippling from her throat merrily with that low, smooth voice.

"Why not?" Matt's now bare and outstretched arm is met with those white, sharpened teeth; they dig hard, the muscles of the woman's neck and jaw twining as they break skin and flesh, her iron grip pulling Parkman's arm down for leverage before the final, sickening rip.

If it weren't for the fact that it's Parkman's arm that's making that gut-wrenching noise, he himself might have given up the meager contents of his stomach. As it is, the telepath can only scream, both out loud and in his head, the latter being louder by this point. With what little strength he has, Parkman lifts his other hand in an attempt to grab at Huruma's head, or push it away…the world may never know, for as his arm is ripped away, that strength leaves the agent just as his blood does, pulsing quickly from his broken arteries in his arm.

Parkman's eyes focus as he stares at Huruma, his expression blank, save for the fear that pulls his mouth slightly open and his eyelids away from his eyes. The clarity, sharpened by the excruciating pain that comes with the sudden and traumatic loss of a limb, soon dies away as Parkman's blood pressure drops. His head falls to one side as consciousness slowly slips away.

Even before Matt loses himself to his new wounds, Huruma goes to work on him with that claw-shaped knife; sooner than later, the pit of the dark alley is draining red instead of the droplets from the clouds. The woman works deftly, quickly, silently, save for those tearing crackles of flesh from tendon and bone.

By the time that Huruma has freed her jacket to take up her bloody spoils and slide her knife back into place, Matt Parkman is left on the wet concrete with one entire arm and side looking as if it has been put through some manner of shredder. The blood vessels have long since constricted into themselves there in his arm, leaving him to his body's own devices— and eventually, the physical shock of a limb lost.

With a simple muttering of something alien and foreign, the now red-stained woman takes off into the alley, turning, twisting, slipping away even as sirens bear down on where she once was. There was more than one souvenir kept, however; in Huruma's possession is also what Matt had on him in terms of identification and value.

What rotten luck— mugged after dinner.

Man Mauled in Upper West Side

An employee of Homeland Security was mauled savagely by a wild animal in the Upper West Side late Tuesday evening.

The man was on his way home to the Dorchester Tower apartment complex when he encountered what authorities suspect to be a big cat. Local residents called 911 shortly after the attack started, but by the time paramedics arrived the man was already unconscious. He was taken to St. Luke's Hospital, where he was identified as Matthew Parkman, 39. Mr. Parkman is currently listed in serious condition.

Police are currently investigating the Central Park Zoo and several wildlife rescues outside the New York metropolitan area. If you have any information, please contact your local law enforcement agency.

September 23rd: Grounded
September 23rd: Ah Have a Plan
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