Participants:
| Scene Title | That's So Johnny Snow |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Gillian and Gabriel give back. |
| Date | November 10, 2008 |
Some of the southern end of the park remains buried beneath rubble. Some of it still looks worn and torn, struggling to come back from the edge of destruction despite everything the crews of landscapers can do. The Wollman Rink has not been rebuilt; the Central Park Wildlife Center remains very much a work in progress, but is not wholly a loss. Someday, this portion of Central Park just might be restored fully to its prior state.
It's early enough for it to still be dark out, and the ground is wet underfoot. A navy woolen coat, freshly washed and tumble dried, is still warm around Sylar, double-breasted buttons all done up with only the corners of his pale blue shirt's collar peaking at his throat, and he breathes out visible breath into the cold air. But not too cold - the fall is still wet than icy, and he leads the way through Central Park, Gillian just beside him. His glasses are also on today, a gloved hand coming up to adjust these on his nose as they move down the path. "You know, I never really came here much," he says to his companion. "Not even in the winter."
Cold is what coats are for. Long black ones. Gillian wears one, also with with double-buttons holding it closed, gloves on her hands, and even a scarf around her neck, covering her ears and top of her head, but leaving her face explosed. Her clothes under it, not visible, would be of the black variety, and her shoes happen to be boots at the moment, without any sign of a heel. She went for comfort and warmth this morning. They're even furlined. "Really? I used to come down here more than I do now, but that has more to do with— well— part of it being destroyed by an radioactive Assface. At least you won't have to worry about heavy music, or people."
"Well, today we might be fixing a little part of what he broke," Sylar says, glancing at her. Above them in the still-dark sky, the clouds hang heavy, and although the news was saying it'd clear up later for a surprisingly warm November day, there's the scent of rain in the air, and it's clear it's been storming all night. Which means water on the ground, filling where it can't run deep into the earth. Which means a certain piece of community service, however temporary, can occur.
"Really?" Gillian glances around, looking at the water. The standing water makes her think of her sister, still captured somewhere. The longer she hesitates on meeting with PARIAH, the worse things will probably get for her. The news article about how PARIAH terrorized the memorial service didn't earn them many points with her, unfortunately. Something he'd probably heard about a few times as she sat with a cat in her lap. No better than the people who busted into her library, or the flaming Assface that could destroy half of the city. Differences between defending freedom, and senseless violence. "What are you planning to do? Rebuild something by moving things around?"
Sylar's hands extract from the pockets of his newly cleaned coat, and he peels off his gloves, pocketing them again. "No," he says. "Not like that." He closes his eyes for a moment, Listening to their surroundings - but he no one is around for a good distance. Around them, morning birds twitter as the sun starts to turn navy sky into a deeper purple. "I want to test something new. Give me your hand, please?" He offers his own, looking at her through the frames of his glasses.
Glancing over, the young woman reaches to pull the glove off one of her hands as well, the one closest to him. This allows Gillian to step over close. She doesn't see anyone either, which is a good sign, though she might believe that some street urchins might be lurking about— he'd have a better chance of knowing they're there than she would, so she trusts him. "What are we trying out here?" she asks, as she reaches over to take his hand, gripping his fairly tightly, and waiting for the drain that will follow. Maybe she can control it a bit more this time— that's the goal.
Sylar leads them towards the destroyed ice rink. What water has gathered there is murky, and there's trash collected around the edges, even in the center, the whole place filthy from a lack of attention. That's okay. There's turning things into, and there's the generation of. He can feel his senses heighten as they grip hands, and his other one extends out. "An early white Christmas," he tells her, and that hand - the one, thankfully, not holding onto Gillian's - turns a bright shining blue, more so than it ever has. Tendrils of that same sort of light drift from his fintertips and spiral downwards, touching ice to water.
It takes a few moments for the woman to even recognize where they've walked to. Gillian may recognize it now that she's standing before it, but a moment ago she couldn't tell what was what in the park. The scars of Peter Petrelli still weight heavy on this part of the park, making it a pale imitation of what it'd been before, broken and torn. "Well— aren't you Santa Clause," she says softly, squeezing his hand. A moment before she'd intended to try and hold back what he needed from her— for practice, but the choice— the decision of what to practice— she doesn't even really try. "I guess you can call me your helper elf, then, but I'm not wearing pointed ears." He'd look better in them anyway.
It's a good deed, although a temporary fix, no doubt. It's not cold enough to sustain the ice at all and it will probably end up doing more damage than good, but for a day, New York will have its ice rink back. Sylar just wants to practice distance, however, nor did he think he was doing the city council a favour by tearing down a building early. He lets out a distracted chuckle at her words, and lifts his hand up. Not to call it a beam of ice, but… it almost is, a shining, illuminated river of light that seems to make the air into mist around it, and he stares in wonder at this new, more powerful extension of his ability as it freezes the water solid wherever it touches, in expansive radiuses of several feet. "How does it feel?" he asks of her. "Is it draining you?"
Does she feel it? Oh yes. Gillian's hand also glows where it touches his, though this glow has no outward affect on it's own, just a halo of a black light— that's about how it looks— a black light. A purple color. Doesn't have the same outward reactions by making things glow, but it looks about the same. The heavy pull is felt, but she takes slow breaths and watches what he does. "Did you must create a freeze ray?" It's not answering his question, but the squeeze against his hand, the tension along her forehead— that might be enough already. Even without the following, softer, "It's not too bad yet. Should be fine."
"I'd call it more of an 'ice beam'," Sylar says. "'Freeze ray' sounds like it'd stop time." He spares a glance in her direction, studying her, before returning his gaze back to his task. Once the water itself is frozen - a shining, dark mess of ice - he starts to allow cleaner, whiter ice to thicken on top of it, like icing. "Look at it," he murmurs, as his arm makes a slow arc, coating the ice with more ice, the beam thickening as his fingers stretch out.
"Ice beam, then," Gillian says softly, voice gaining some tension as she continues to grip his hand and hold on, watching the spread of ice along the water that'd built up. After a moment, there's a smile forming on her mouth, spreading her cheeks, making her eyes shift. "It's beautiful, Gabriel," she says truthfully, with no other way to describe it. She can't imagine just how much he could do with this… The reason they're doing these practices is to understand what they're capable of together, because… "Ice against fire. I'd like to see him try to heal from this…" Her voice isn't weaker, but there's less energy to it.
In such a short space of time, the water is frozen and almost entirely covered in - slightly uneven - whiter ice, and Sylar steps back, taking Gillian with him, as it starts to creep towards the edges. Rather suddenly, he clasps his fist, and takes a breath when he does, the 'ice beam' dying away. It's suddenly much colder in this immediate vicinity, but he doesn't lower his arm, looking towards Gillian. "It'd have to be faster, deadlier when we meet Peter and— Peter," he says. "Let's try one last thing. Try putting everything you got into it, then pulling back so that you don't spend yourself."
"So— like turning on the faucet all the way and then… turning it off before it overflows," Gillian states, though there's a hint of a question in her voice. It is cooler, which makes her grip his hand tighter, shiver, and try to pull her scarf up a bit more. Her nose is red by this point, but… "You're stronger than him," she assures him. "Even without me. With me, you'll be stronger than two of him." It's odd, she's trying to reassure him when she's relying on him to protect her— Inspiration. In a different way. The longer this goes on, the more she understands the term. Closing her eyes, she tries to feel out all of her own energy, everything that's powering him, and she lets it go, lets it flow into him, through him— waiting for that pain in the middle of her forehead that prefaced the building falling down— waiting for that instant…
And then suddenly she clamps down on it. And for the first time ever, the flow of energy from her… shifts into a small trickle. Not completely cut off, but noticably different, a drip.
The reassurance isn't dismissed - Sylar just watches her as she speaks, and nods. Accepting it. "You're right," he says, gently. He shifts the clasp on her hand, linking their fingers together, and prepares himself for the surge. When it comes, he readily gives it a direction, flinging his other hand out - stronger, and brighter than before, with a sound like a rush of storming wind and a blast of cold for everyone to feel, the raw coldness shoots from Sylar's hand— towards a tree, which is hit with a subzero blast of cold, that area immediately freezing with a shudder. Leaves that had been in the process of falling come loose, heavier, and any longer, it could explode into shards—
The light flickers out, leaving Sylar's hand glowing that faint blue, the normal draw of ability that snaps metal but never extends further than a couple of feet. "Golly," Sylar murmurs, breathing out even thicker clouds, the air much colder than before, and there's the crack of ice. Slowly does it, the tree starts to bend, breaking in half with an eventual collapse.
The word makes her eyes open again, but Gillian manages to hold on to the slow trinkle of energy, the light drip, even with the added distraction of… well… her eyes find a tree covered in ice, as the sky starts to brighten and gain color. Plants covered in ice really do tend to have a beauty to them, picturesque, even. When her eyes open again, they're not oddly colored— nor is her hand glowing where they touch anymore, visual cues toward her success. "Think… think I figured out how to close it down." Now if only she can hold onto it. There's a smile, just a little tense and tired, but she looks up at him. "That was nicer than tearing down a building," she says, an impressed sound to her voice.
"That's good. Good work," Sylar says, a little breathlessly. He's not as worn down as Gillian, but the surge certainly spends a little of his own energy. It's almost winter cold now, this setting, and he untangles his hand from hers to secure an arm around her shoulders. "When it comes time to fight, we'll need to figure a good balance between what I can do on my own," he says, starting to lead them around the rejuvenated rink, "and when I need you to help me."
"Signals too— signals would be nice. Like gang-signs," Gillian says, letting him have his hand back, and reaching into her coat to put the glove back on before her fingers start to get too cold. The hold had helped keep warm, at least. Though the physical contact has broken, she tests something out— releasing the hold on the energy. It flows again, right to him, in less amounts than before, and she clamps back down on it again. "I'll have to be fairly close to you— within a few meters."
"I don't intend for you to be very far," Sylar confirms. "You need to be close enough for me to do this." And around them, reality distorts, taking on a pale blue-ish quality as a telekinetic membrane shell extends around them - and it fluctuates in solidness as Gillian practices her ability, the forcefield firming in places and still malleable in others. With a flicker, it disappears out of reality again. "I'm not willing to let him hurt you, Gillian. You need to stay by me when we get there."
"And I want to be close enough to shoot him again if I have the chance," Gillian admits quietly, even as she watched the bubble of energy that protected her from falling debris one time. It sounds like she doesn't intend to just stand there and let him do all the fighting, at least. "I know you'll protect me, though. Otherwise I doubt I could do this at all."
His arm moves from her shoulders so that he can replace the gloves back onto his hands too as they walk, the air finally, slowly, losing the freezer-like crispy coldness. "I'll get you some more ammunition for that gun," he says. "But between us, I'm sure we'll have more than enough firepower. I just need to figure out when and where so we can make sure we're in the right place and the right time."
"I didn't use the gun you gave me last time," Gillian does say, suddenly realizing she may not have mentioned that. "I pulled it off of the Agent who was with him— English dude. Every time I've seen him he's getting tossed into things. But I stole his taser first, and then his gun. Good thing too, otherwise I would have lost my only birthday present when Peepee Assface disarmed me." Peepee due to the fact that— well— she saw his peepee. And his initials are P and P. But that's… yeah, she's mature at times. "But I know, you're tougher than me. Ice beam, tossing chunks of rock with your mind… You got a lot going for you." And more than she knows.
"I don't know, Gillian," Sylar says, looking towards her. "You're a strong person, and you can lend that strength to anyone. That's your gift." His hand goes for hers again, but the layers of fabric prevent a true connection being made. That's not his intention, in any case. "I know I'm— protecting you," he says, other hand lifting to fidget with the glasses on his face, pushing them up along the bridge of his nose a little more. "But I'm not stupid enough to think you couldn't get by without me."
Something about what was said, or the manner in which it was said, seems to dislodge the clamps she'd put down on her ability. Though he has nothing active at the moment, and can keep it from causing him to lose control— it's there. A steadier stream as he holds onto her gloved hand. Gillian glances down at it, then back up at him again. "You're right— I'm not helpless. And I could have taken care of this on my own if I choose to." She had other options she could have tried. A trailer park— that would have been an interesting door to knock on, and she might have had to deck him first, but… "I could have hopped on my motorcycle and made it to West Virginia. There's all kinds of biker bars there— the great thing about them is they don't tend to ask what you're running from." There'd been other issues, but… Her hand shifts, until the second gloved hand lays over his— holding his hand in both of hers. "But I'm glad you're here— and I'm glad that there's something I can do… to keep you and the rest of the world from getting royally fucked over, at least."
In sync, Sylar looks down to their joined hands, then up again to meet her eyes when she does too. At her last statement, he smiles and chuckles. "That's a good way to describe it," he says. "And I'll always keep you with me. And safe." But mostly 'with me'. He glances away from her, down the path they were headed, and he tilts his head a little. "It's almost six, we should find a bakery and grab some coffee or something, I know you're not really a morning person."
That— For a moment her eyebrows raise slightly, her mouth opens a bit, but when she looks away she doesn't say anything. But she doesn't really need to because Gillian's heartbeat and breathing changes slightly. What he'd said certainly caused an effect. Her hands squeeze his a little, though for this instant, she's avoiding looking up at him. Luckily, he mentions something in the form of breakfast. And the eternal greatness that is coffee. "If I'm up this early it's usually because I haven't gone to bed yet," she agrees, now looking up and giving a lopsided smile. "While we're there, you'll have to tell me what kind of pastries you like."
"I look forward to enlightening you." And he doesn't really let go of her hand, Sylar leading them away from the ice rink and towards where the park takes on a little more life and shape. He's playing a part, it's true, and as they walk, and that connection of her ability makes him be aware of every single one of his powers, he's not worried that it's a part he slips more and more comfortably into as the days go by.
 November 9th: Private Care |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 November 10th: Pharmaceutical Philosophies |