Participants:
| Scene Title | Unorthodox Rooftop Party |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A brief glimpse into one of Vanguard's 'social gatherings'. |
| Date | November 8, 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."
Early evening, and this abandoned part of New York City has grown rather chilly once the sun starts to make its retreat. A slight wind is blowing through the parking lot of abandoned and burnt out vehicles. He should fix one of the nicer ones up some day, have an extra car floating round.. But there is business to be about. The roof of Eagle Electric is even chillier, though the fellowship and comeraderie helps to warm up the area a bit. Or maybe not. The Vanguard will be storming the world in many different ways soon, and they need to be ready. So a meeting has been called for the night. All who are able to attend are expected to show.. And most of them have, or are in the process of arriving.
A few tables are scattered around the roof, candles lit on them. Ethan even went to the trouble of laying out a few blankets on the chairs should the women get cold. Or should Amato get cold. Different books, papers, and weapons are laid out on the various desks. Weapons aren't the only important thing, when attention is drawn to Vanguard the 'operatives' will need to know how to act in secrecy. Code names, code words, hand signals, all that fun secret agent stuff included are sprawled out on different desks. Of course they will be burned at the end of the night.
At one table, three men are seated. At this table, weapons are present. Rifles to be exact, sniper rifles. "This is Russian. The Dragonov SVD. This—" His hands go to the other rifle. "Italian. Beretta M501. One of the only good things to come out of Italy." The cockney accent comes. "Except of course Amato." Ethan adds as an after thought. Seated to his right is Wu-Long and across him, his student, Sylar. Though the man may have plenty weapons in his DNA, EVERYONE should know how to shoot a gun. And Sniper Rifles tickle Ethan's fancy. "It's a solid weapon, lasted the time of ages. Which one do you wan' to try?" The Brit asks Sylar with a smile as he looks up through the candle light to the serial killer.
Contrary to popular belief, Amato does know how to aim and fire a weapon. He just isn't as proficient at the task as Ethan is, given his own personal aversion to the act. So as Wu-Long and Sylar listen to Ethan's instruction, Amato puts in some practice with a 9mm, equipped with a silencer. He's removed his wool coat and suit jacket, and they lie carefully folded and draped over one of the chairs, leaving him in his shirt-sleeves and a sweater-vest in addition to his freshly pressed pants, shiny black shoes, and full Windsor-knotted tie. Tightening his jaw, the blond, would-be man of the cloth takes aim at a target further down the length of the large, abandoned warehouse, and squeezes the trigger.
The gun's report is a whisper of what it would be in such an open space, and the brass cases hitting the roof make much more noise than the actual discharging of the bullets. Amato empties the magazine before he glances at the other man and starts his trek to the target to check his performance.
She arrives, looking annoyed as she comes up to the roof. "Y' had to do this on a roof? INSIDE wasn't good enough for y'?" She looks at the list of weapons, not that she's actually worried about firing any of them. "Beretta's better for the long range, Dragunov the short." Dina looks over at the display, apparently considering it somewhat remedial.
The shadows around them seem to melt into the darker shades to all three men, Sylar's as-per-usual choice of black clothing making him sink in a little, although his currently sallow complexion catches the fire light easily of the nearby candles. Sylar will prove to be a good student. Information easily retained, he keeps his arms folded on the edge of the table, looking over the displayed weapons, one at a time. He's tempted to touch and take apart as far as these weapons can be, but for now he resists, listening to what Ethan says about each one and storing the information away inside a limitless memory. It's hard to say, though, if he's necessarily enjoying the lesson, because naturally, he doesn't see an awful lot of point in using weapons he, as far as he's concerned, will never need.
But when Ethan asks which one he wants to try, his gaze darts up towards the man and a slight smirk twists his mouth. Dina's arrival gains a glance, and he says, "I'll follow your recommendation," he says, because asking which gun hurts people most might be more than a rookie question, and he nods towards the sniper rifle Ethan was just lecturing about. "If I'm within close range, I probably won't need a gun."
On Wu-Long's lap, there sits a stapled tome of codes and signals. Still tanned from his weeks on the sea, his fingers stripe the page like black bars, callused as the pulp is smooth, the smoothed tips of his fingernails tracing lines of neatly printed text as if it's necessary to guide his eye along, horizontal, from left edge to right. Perhaps it is; Dina isn't, after all, the only one with enough field experience to render this exercise slightly redundant, nor Sylar the only one with more in his arsenal to give him the edge in combat than the variations between bullets, models, and makes.
Nevertheless, Wu-Long does as ever take to this roof party without bitching or allowing his attention to stray except rarely from the Englishman's demonstration and QA session. He's brushing on coursework. It's less tedious by far than going through arithmetic equations or thousands of lines of calligraphic prose the way he had done in his childhood, though it might well appeal to the same psychological system of rote memorization.
He doesn't turn his head to watch Amato fire into the night, listening instead to the squeak of the silence and rattle of falling casings; his cheek twitches when Dina mixes complaint and cooperation.
When Sylar chooses his weapon, however, he shuts his reading, leaves it on his lap. Smiles at the younger men through flat coal eyes, abruptly now overtly interested. "Gnocchi," he remarks, at length. Chair legs grate like teeth on the concrete below: he pushes back from the table, stands up despite the absence of any need or signal for him to do so. "They aren't excellent dumplings, but they're all right."
He glances over his shoulder as Dina storms up and starts on a tirade. A slight frown pulls down on his lips. He brought blankets… He nods to Dina's statement. "The Dragonov is really just an extension of an infantry rifle. Re-tooled for a longer range, but it isn't considered a true sniper rifle by any means. The Parker-Hale M85, though. Well let's just say if you get your 'ands on one, you've found me a Christmas present, uh?" Ethan says with a smirk to Sylar. The Beretta is slid across the table to Sylar.
"Dina, my dear." The Brit starts, "Would y'like to join Sylar 'ere? Little target practice." When Wu-Long stands, so does he. His chair legs echo Wu's instants after and soon the man is on his feet. Motioning to a box near the table. "There's a Remington in there if you want it." Ethan says to Dina. He then looks back to Sylar. "'Aven't you ever read books, or watched movies or whatever the fuck. Wizards become so depen'ent on their magic they get fuckin' slashed up by a sword when their magic stops workin'. Whot if you meet someone like Dina 'ere, only more potent eh?" The man asks with an arched brow throught the candle light. "You better know how to work a /conventional/ weapon, then. And I'll be the one how to use one properly." Ethan says smoothly. Just wait for knife practice. The Wolf's gaze flicks over to Amato for a moment. "Good shot, muffin." Is all that is said to the man for now.
Dina grins a bit at Ethan. "Depends. Do I get t' shoot at you with it?" But she nods. Since Sylar's been given the Beretta, she reaches out to take the Dragunov. "This one works." She checks the action, checks the clip, slaps the cartridge back into place. "So who'm I shootin'?" A wry grin.
The rifle is picked up after Wu-Long is glanced towards, and not quite with the hesitance that the inexperienced might wield such a weapon, Sylar getting to his feet so he might hold it without awkwardness. He watches Dina's movements with the weapon she's picked up, and copies it - if a little slower, but he seems to get a grip on the mechanics rather easily. Take that as you will. Looking from her, then back to Ethan, then back to Dina, he says, rather serenely, "I got to stab him with a mop." Just because she seems like she might be interested in that sort of thing. Back to Ethan, he just shrugs a little at this talk of wizards and power being a negotiable thing to have. It's probably true, and it's why he's here to learn, but all the same, it's not Sylar's biggest concern.
There are stories about that in the West. The arrogant wizard, the earnest knight, the mindless dragon, the damsel. Good exploits evil's cardinal sins, one or several out of the codefied seven. Chinese stories are a little less— straightforward, or so Wu-Long was told, by a mother who sneered slightly as she said so. He has stories of an uncouth, barbarian monkey who beats away the rakshasas once they take him to the neverworld, breaks into the record room and erases his name from the book of the dead. Legends of fallen kings who, sweeping the streets by day, forced themselves to eat dog manure every night, self-flagellating until they reclaimed what was theirs.
He's thinking of that, idly, as he comes to the edge of the roof. Raises a foot and leans his weight against the raised concrete, his elbows relaxed loose atop his knee. There are enough roles for all of them in a story of stereotypical Western children's story. Of the tales grumbled into his ear as an infant, none of them measure up. Each one doomed to die, none of them legitimate, self-possessed conquerors. Except, perhaps— he glances sideways. "Stabbed who with a mop?" he asks, his book of pages dangling from a hand.
Looking at Dina, Ethan smirks in return to her grin. "Try it. See what 'appens. He says then looks back to Sylar and a genuine smile breaks out. "That 'e did. I tried not to 'urt your shoulder too bad with it." Ethan points out, though if it had been a ploy that he had done with Amato.. or maybe even Dina, things might've been different. Nodding Sylar and Dina to the edge of the roof the man goes to accompany them. Taking a seat next to Wu-Long on the edge. Peering over his shoulder the man picks targets. "Red burnt out civic, Sylar. Driver's window. Wu-Long, you 'elp him?" The man asks, looking over his shoulder, "Blue mini-van, Dina. Rear tire." He man says while reaching into his coat to pull out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
"Smokes, anyone?" The man asks, pulling out one and placing it in his lips. Assuming Wu-Long will accept, the Wolf offers the pack to his Chinese compatriot. "Sylar and I had a.. thing to deal wit' the other night. We need to speak on that a bit later, Sylar." The man adds, as he lounges against the edge of the roof.
It takes time to walk the length of Amato's makeshift shooting range, as he has decided not to commit the sin of damaging public property. He only tsks as he passes the others, the target in his hands. He /has/ done rather well, considering. It the bullseye were this unlucky Evolved's heart, even all the lung shots around it would result in death. Deciding he's finished with pistol practice for now, Amato replaces the gun with its brethren before picking up one of the many books to begin leafing through it, taking a seat next to his things. Underneath that chair sits a styrofoam cooler, and on top of it, a pie tin covered in foil.
Maybe it was inevitable that the show on the rooftop would attract some attention. Fortunately, it's not an adverse kind, or even the kind of attention the group would rather not have. The only attention they've attracted belongs to Elias, having joined them on the rooftop at some point during their practice with no more sound than perhaps that of a light breeze.
He's come prepared, having opted out of wearing a suit and instead dressing himself in clothes suitable for less delicate work than he normally does; blue jeans, a stressed, brown bomber jacket and black tanker boots. The only part that seems truly out of place tonight is his lack of a sandwich. "What, no one waits to say grace anymore?" he asks half-sarcastically, "Just show up and bang bang, Beretta's silver hammer makes sure that they are dead? I'm hurt."
Dina smirks when Ethan says to try it. "You sure about that?" She snaps the rifle up, aimed at Ethan for the moment. She doesn't fire, though. Just looks at him. "Bang." Then he mentions a target, and heads over to the minivan, before dropping into a kneeling position. She fires. One. *POP* Two. *POP*. She turns to look back. "We going to save kiddie school for th' rookies around here?" That would NOT be her, by her tone.
Moving towards the edge as Ethan does, Sylar looks to where he's told to shoot the thing. Finally, telescopic vision is more useful then for reading someone's John Grisham novel in the opposite apartment complex. He doesn't point out this little advantage he has - he's not above cheating, after all. Elias's appearance gets a suspicious look over Sylar's shoulder, as if irritated at being interrupted - which is probably nicer than looking hungered, to be frank. He starts to allow Wu-Long to direct him around the ways of a rifle, but he pauses, casts a sharp look to Ethan. "Why? What happened?" is asked, before he finally points the weapon over the edge of the building, not yet firing it.
Wu-Long takes a smoke, accepts a light, and stands there exhaling nicotine into the air as he studies the street below. Asked to give Sylar a hand, he nods his assent. Pulls back from the ledge and walks over, his shoes clicking crisply on the cold and remorseless stuff of the rooftop, studying Sylar's grip on the weapon. A light touch on shoulder, a succinct murmur of instruction— back an inch, prepare for the kick but it's only bad if you're not holding it firmly enough.
He pauses when Sylar suffers his momentary distraction, glancing up to take a drag out of his cancer stick, and watches Dina brutalize that minivan. "I think it's a bonding exercise, xiao-jie," he remarks at her, his tone both light and serious: he suspects she'd scoff a little less at that than an insult to her skills. He adds in the same tone: "Good job." It's difficult to tell whether he means fake killing their commander or fake killing the vehicle. Probably the former. Bonding.
"You're set," he nods at Sylar, sparing Ethan only a momentary inquisitve glance. He'd ask whether it was successful, but Ethan's tone and statements indicate the world otherwise. He salutes at Elias, the gesture still sharp with military habit.
Ethan smirks at Dina as she fake shoots him. The man knows she wouldn't dare such a thing. At least not in a public place where someone.. might prevent her. His eyes remain levelly on Dina. Should he ever think that she would actually attempt to kill him, or compromise a job.. She would be dead before her next sassy comment. Turning Ethan watches Dina's shots and nods approvingly. "Good 'nuff." The man says, before looking back to Sylar. "I will tell you later." The Brit says.
"Does that mean you'd like to hear about your Rapunzel later as well, Ethan?" Amato asks from his seat, not looking up from the book as he idly turns page after page, skimming through the introduction and preface. "Because I must say, you could have /tried/ to find a more /interesting/ demon. Or are you scouting for our side of the field?"
Elias happily gives Wu-Long a nod of acknowledgement, but doesn't do much else. He doesn't feel he needs to. "Did I come at a bad time, or something?" he asks, "Everyone seems more on edge than usual. The air feels thick enough from all the tension that you could make garlic bread out of it. Seriously, what's the deal? Are we just up here to shoot our guns, or is there something else we're discussing, or, what? Someone maybe want to fill me in on what I missed? I skipped dinner to be here, you know. Fill me in or feed me, or I might get cranky."
Amato looks up at Elias when he makes his cantankerous complaint, and smirks. He moves one foot to push the cooler out from under the seat next to him. "Apple pie and ice cream, courtesy a charming little diner. Help yourself."
Dina chuckles at Wu-Long's little comment to her, though she looks back and says "Good. Y' dragged me all the way from fockin' Europe over here for somethin'. Be nice to find out what it's supposed to be." She puts the rifle back down on the table. "Nothin' like practice."
The instructions are heard, taken on, adjustments made - and Sylar pulls the trigger, the gun jerking to indicate as such. He misses, naturally, but not by an insanely wide birth. Just enough to indicate that if that had been at a person, they'd like still be standing. If running away. He silently tries again, and the bullet clips the very side of the window, denting metal but not breaking dusty glass. Temporarily forgetting - if figuratively - what he'd asked Ethan, he doggedly tries again. Bulls eye, glass breaks. Probably beginner's luck, or a small cluster of talents giving him an edge. Maybe it's just not that hard to snipe a stationary target even from this distance. The gun is replaced onto the table of weaponry, another one picked up and studied, and as conversation continues in this most unconventional rooftop gathering and he aims for the other window, Sylar is pretty sure he could get used to this.
 November 8th: Don't Shoot the Messenger |
 November 8th: Primal |