Participants:
| Scene Title | The Others |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Odessa arrives at Wu-Long's apartment, summoned by Sylar, to patch up an injured Eileen. Ethan arrives fashionably late and vows to get to the bottom of things. |
| Date | January 4, 2009 |
Confucius Plaza: Wu-Long's Apartment
A downright Spartan apartment building. Neat, but not immaculate, minimalistically furnished— give or take a few militarily-oriented surprises tucked into concealed nooks or replastered behind furniture, and impersonally decorated.
A small plastic Buddha atop a shelf and generic prints of Chinese women on bridges and fat children are framed on the walls. A carved wood tube of wood sits by the entranceway, receptacle for umbrellas; the dining table, knee-height and surrounded by seating cushions, bears a rickety glass Lazy Susan. A faded Xerox of a faded photograph sits on what serves as a mantelpiece, just right of the television, a portrait of a solemn, elderly Chinese couple. There is a plate of fruit before it, peaches, pears or apples swapped out before rot sets in every three days.
You'll find beer in the refrigerator and three small bedrooms in the back.
The afternoon of the fourth is as bleak and dreary outside as the early morning when dark skies opened up and pelted New York City with sheet after sheet of freezing rain, turning the snow on the streets to slush and then ice. Inside, things aren't much better; although warm and dry, the interior of Wu-Long's apartment is swathed in shadows but for a few pools of pale light created by small clusters of unscented candles scattered throughout the multi-roomed dwelling.
Confucius Plaza — at least for a few hours — is without power, courtesy of the weather. What little sunlight breaks through the cloud cover and makes it way through the windows of the complex is tinted gray by the gloom, providing the occupants very little to work with… if they are working at all.
Eileen Ruskin certainly isn't. Unconscious and buried beneath several layers of blankets to prevent the warmth from leaving her body, the young woman does very little except breathe, blearily study the ceiling from beneath her lashes and soak Wu-Long's sheets with her blood. She might know where she is, she might not — at this stage, it's difficult to know what she might be thinking without asking. And asking probably isn't going to yield any useful answers.
Like some kind of silent watchdog, Sylar sits in the corner of the room, almost melting into the shadows that reside, stagnant, out of the reach of the candlelight. His eyes are downcast, studying the carpet rather than the girl in the bed, but what is more important is that he is Listening. To breathing, to heartbeats, and wider still, to the sounds of the apartment around him. Waiting.
He hasn't attempted to speak to her since they had been left alone. Not out of a lack of questions, however - he has plenty. Just out of futility. They will have to be answered later, that much he's aware of. And so instead, he fills in the answers himself as he waits, hands clasped together and elbows against his knees, and in some abstract way, Sylar grapples with the notion that this is, in some abstract way, his fault. Or that it's not. A decision hasn't been reached quite yet and there's no room for guilt. There's never room for guilt.
The sound of footsteps from the hallway reach his ears, and almost silently, Sylar gets to his feet and moves out of the bedroom, through the main area, and unlocking, opening the door before Odessa can even reach it. Dressed in his usual black attire, he steps out into the hallway, gaze landing on the doctor. Nothing about him says of his prior brooding, or even anything that isn't his usual stoic quietness. "Come in," he invites, easily. Hard to say if he had been waiting for the doctor herself or perhaps Eileen's death, or perhaps both. If anything shows, it's a little relief that it is in fact the former.
Odessa wastes no time in shedding her coat, passing the streotypical black leather bag doctors are depicted as carrying between her hands as she pulls out of the wool sleeves. She wastes no time passing the black coat off to Sylar. "Bedroom?" She doesn't wait for an answer. Doctor Knutson is in, and she's ready to do what she does best. She makes her way to the bedroom without hesitation, obviously familiar with the layout of the apartment. "Eileen," she murmurs once she's by the woman's side. "Eileen, can you hear me?" She glances over her shoulder, taking it for granted that Sylar would be on her heels. "How long?" She's already peeling back layers of sheets and blankets, her bag set aside.
Eileen doesn't nod, doesn't give Odessa any verbal indication that she's heard the question. Instead, she moves her eyes from the ceiling to the doctor's face, saying nothing. Yes, she can hear her. See her, too, even if things are a little blurrier than she remembers them being.
Without much thought, Sylar hangs up her coat beside his, and sets about locking the door once more. A habit he's really only learned from being Vanguard, to lock the door during times he would otherwise forego it. In a slower pace than Odessa, he follows, almost strolling, and coming to stop at the bedroom doorway, as if the room were suddenly a domain he didn't belong in. Sylar doesn't leave, however, just leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms coming to fold across his chest. "I found her early in the morning," he says, gaze switching towards the figure bundled in the bed. "Almost four o'clock."
"Shit," Odessa murmurs under her breath. She starts pulling away Eileen's shirt so she can get a good look at what she's dealing with. "Oh, shit." She plucks her bag up and starts rummaging through it. "This isn't going to be pleasant, Eileen. I'll try to make it as painless as possible. I won't let you die." She stands over the injured woman and takes in a deep breath, shaking her hands out at her sides. Then, she holds them up, balled into fists. "Here we go." Her fingers snap out and Doctor Knutson goes to work.
At least, it would seem that that she must have gone to work. One minute, Eileen Ruskin is bleeding out and the next moment, she's sporting fresh stitches, the wound in her stomach closed up. The patient may not have known it happened, but she can feel the acute pain from it all the same. Her shoulder has been set, tied with linens to keep it held in place, and her wrist has been immobilised with boards, wrapped tightly by gauze.
The gaze the blonde turns on Sylar is apologetic. There's blood on her hands, smeared across her cheeks and there's a faint touch of pink in her hair, where she must have swept a lock behind her ear. "I… She needs more than what I can do with the equipment I have. Either she needs a healer, or we need to sneak her into E.E." She shakes her head, lips pressed together. "What I've done… it won't be enough."
"Wu-Long," Sylar says, still watching Eileen from his vantage point at the doorway. "He's going to find the miracle healer girl of Phoenix's." A glance towards the doctor, raising an eyebrow. "Considering how much God apparently watches over that one, I thought I might act first. In case she didn't agree." Another glance between the two women, as if to suggest: and in case she didn't live much longer.
"You did the right thing. I can keep her alive until Wu-Long succeeds. But there's only so much I can do." Odessa gnaws on her lower lip. "Who did this to her?" Who do they have to take apart?
Eileen hisses out a thin snort through her nostrils in response to Odessa's question and shifts slightly in the bed, bandages rustling against the sheets beneath the blankets. She's no more alert and lucid than she was a few minutes ago, but it's difficult to ignore the sound of voices so close to where she's resting. Earlier, when it was just her and Sylar in the apartment, she went hours without noticing his brooding shape in the corner — this is different, this is more real than the shadows that wind around the room and creep into the corners of her vision. "V— hnn."
Only Sylar could hear the incoming sound, the muffled noises, the careful movements indicating someone trying to be quiet. The door closes ever so quietly behind the man as he enters. The Wolf has returned. And the Wolf is upset. The man changes from walking stealthily to walking swiftly where the noises come from. Soon he stands in and over Eileen, his attention only on the girl for now.
Sylar only gets the time to shake his head once, to show he doesn't know, before the sounds of Ethan's approach catch his attention. For a moment, he only watches Eileen struggle to speak before he wordlessly turns away from both to step further into the main area of the room, vanishing from sight of the bedroom— although it doesn't much matter, with Ethan's swift approach. The man is fixed with a slightly hard look from the killer, although all things considered, it could well go unnoticed. "You're back," Sylar says, stepping aside. His tone of voice communicates what goes unsaid: how completely not timely of you!
Odessa takes a step toward Ethan to greet him when he arrives, but she quickly realises he only has eyes for Eileen. She steps back again, to a darkened corner of the room, sending a glance in Sylar's direction.
"Vol-ken." Kazimir. Two syllables are easier to stutter than three. For once, Eileen doesn't care who Ethan has eyes for — only that he, Sylar and Odessa hear what little she has to say. She takes a deep breath and then lets it back out again, focusing on the pain so she has something to anchor herself to the waking world. Having spent most of the morning drifting in and out of consciousness, both inside the drain pipe and later on the ride back to Manhattan, she recognizes that she doesn't have a lot of time before her body is ready to lapse back into sleep again. "He has— others."
Ethan only glances at Sylar for a moment his gaze mostly fixed to Eileen. His hand comes up slowly to brush against her cheek as he peers intenly at her eyes. He frowns deeply at her words. "Think about these others Princess." Ethan murmurs softly. And with that he looks back to Sylar. "Touch 'er." He mutters, motioning with one hand. His gaze goes to Odessa for just a moment, though he says nothing, his eyes simply go to hers for a moment.
At the murmured order, Sylar doesn't move, for a second. Face carefully blank, reluctance can be seen written into his posture only. Then, finally, he moves further into the room, coming to stand on the other side of Eileen's bed. Crouching down, he closes his hand over her's. Volken, she'd said. At least that one suspicion is confirmed. He still doesn't know whose fault it is, of course. He shuts his eyes, and triggers one particular ability that's barely a twinge in Eileen's mind. There's no real reaction - in fact, Sylar's visible tension relaxes, hand becoming loose on her's.
Odessa holds Ethan's gaze for the scant space of a moment before she takes her bag and sweeps off to wait in the living room. "Call me when you're done questioning her and I'll make sure she stays alive."
Fear is an ugly thing. It gets under your skin, works its way through your limbs, turning them to jelly. Twisting, squirming, writhing, its coils knot in your belly and paralyze the muscles there. On the surface, Eileen is — was — afraid.
Asking her to recall the memory isn't quite the same as asking her to relive it; ultimately, that's Sylar's job. At the surface are shadows, hazy flickers of dark imagery that come in and out of focus like a reel of film that's missing most of its frames. She has a concussion — that's probably to be expected.
I'm sorry, Eileen's disembodied voice whispers in Sylar's head, and it isn't a memory. Her body deflates with a long, shaky sigh. I can't do it. It keeps slipping away from me.
One hand flies up swiftly in a 'stop' motion as Odessa starts to make her way out. His hand slowly lowers, intentionally but briefly brushing against hers as his hand drops down. "What are our options for 'er?" He asks simply, standing beside her yet facing the other way. His eyes then slide back to Sylar as he waits for the verdict.
And Sylar's hand tightens when her voice drifts through his head. Unexpected. He reaches back out. It won't from me, he reassures, and— rather unlike he had the first time he'd used this ability on the girl— he opens himself up to the memories that begin to invade his mind.
He lets go when it begins, pushing away from the bed rather suddenly, enough that his back comes to rest against the wall - he keeps his eyes shut, no need to confuse the images he's getting. They're already confused enough, distorted with feeling, with point of view, with panic and pain. Sylar grimaces, a hand coming to rest against his forehead, as if trying to keep everything in.
"No name," he reports, voice almost too quiet and rasping, head tilting back to rest with a *thunk!* against the wall. "I don't know him. He's meant to— " A pause, confusion. "He's meant to take her in alive. But he doesn't. He's come to kill her." Then abruptly, he chuckles as a different thought entire hits him. "I did tempt fate," he tells the semi-conscious girl, opening his eyes to look across at her.
Odessa's brows furrow and she shoots Ethan a dark look. She opens her mouth to speak, but her attention is caught by Sylar instead. She waits until he's finished speaking, though she's certainly far from enlightened. "Options…" she murmurs absently, ordering her thoughts. "Wu-Long's supposed to be obtaining Phoenix's miracle healer. If she does what I've heard, your Princess will be right as rain in no time. However, if Wu-Long doesn't hurry…" She gnaws on her lower lip, thinking for a moment. "I should be able to keep her alive until he can get here. But if he fails, there's only so much I'll be able to do for her unless we take her back to my lab. And it sounds as though that isn't going to be a very good option, if Volken's sent someone to retrieve or kill her." She pauses and then smirks in spite of herself, "But if anyone can get her in there, it's me. I'd just need a little help." That out of the way, she turns her concern to Sylar. "Are you all right?"
Her obligation fulfilled, burden of responsibility shifted from her shoulders to Sylar's, Eileen closes her eyes and lets exhaustion finish consuming her. Sylar's words, both spoken and not, are likely the last definite thing that she hears. The exchange between Odessa and Ethan is as distant to her ears as the patter of rain against the windows.
Walking forward the Wolf bends over to plant a gentle kiss on the girl's forehead. Straightening he eyes Sylar for a moment taking in everything that is said. "Give me 'is description." Ethan murmurs, though his eyes nearly twitch at Odessa's words. A twinge of jealousy in his eyes as she shows concern for Sylar. The man turns fully to face the woman for a moment. He looks at her appraisingly. "Do your best, love. 'e will get 'ere. Just like you, 'e gets 'is jobs done."
Sylar nods once at Odessa's question, quick and dismissive— trying to pull away from the memories he doesn't want. An arm comes to rest against his own midsection protectively, as if he had his own stomach wound to deal with, and his heart beat rises a little bit faster as panic drifts through him. An abstractly distant sort of panic, not truly his own. He anchors himself with Ethan's question. His voice comes out wavering now, and very distracted, but louder at least - and the accent slightly off. "Late twenties, early thirties. Black. Tall, very tall." Or at least, very tall from Eileen's perspective but it's getting hard to split the difference. "Used a knife— " He flinches, compulsively. By now, his accent has changed into that of the girl lying on the bed, the transformation coming to a quicker close thanks to its reception. "There was a car. Hit 'em both. He's hurt. He's gonna be hurt."
And now he's silent. There's more things to sift through, things no quite relevant to Ethan or Odessa or really anyone but himself. His eyes close again, thoughtful silence.
"As you wish," Odessa consents to Ethan's request. She listens to Sylar, however, before filling that request. "Sylar," she says gently, "you should rest." And she knows how to ensure that he does so, though she doesn't act just yet. She has one patient she must attend to first.
Approaching Eileen's bedside. Odessa holds an arm out over the woman's body and then opens her fist swiftly. Eileen goes unnaturally still, with Sylar being unable to Hear her breathing or the beating of her heart. "I can't hold it forever. She won't get worse as long as I hold this, but it isn't good for either of us. I will need to recover, depending on how long it takes Wu-Long to return with our miracle worker. And she should be kept out of sync as little as possible."
Frowning softly at Sylar, Ethan moves up beside Odessa, looking down at Eileen. He gives a nod, moving his hand up to cover Odessa's briefly. A soft squeeze is given, the man steps back. "Use your best judgement love, I trust you with 'er." And that is saying something. "Wu-Long will get 'is job done, 'e'll bring 'er soon. She does good work, 'ealed a medium injury I 'ad." Ethan states. His hand comes up to give Odessa's shoulder a brief squeeze. "Good work Sylar. I'll go see what I can find out." He mutters, making his way out.
This would normally be where Sylar would volunteer to tag along, to do something, but he's officially out for the count for the next hour or so. He ignores Ethan entirely as the man commends his work and walks out, and after a while, Sylar braces himself against the wall to get to his feet. A somewhat mystified look is cast down to Eileen's time-frozen form, then to Odessa with a moment of understanding. The doctor is awarded a brief, not-so-Sylar-like smile, and he makes his tentative way back towards the seat in the corner, where he'd been watching over the girl before. The only explanation he gives is a short, "Resting," before letting his eyes slide closed and rest his head back. Not truly resting, however. Far from it.
 January 4th: Get Used To Disappointment |
 January 4th: Apollo Spat |