Participants:
| Scene Title | Walk The Talk |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Samuel promises the brother of the late Nina Novikova a piece of history. |
| Date | September 2, 2010 |
Staten Island: Above Shooters Bar and Bistro
Nicolai folds back the fabric in two parts, a slow reveal if Samuel ever did see one — and being in show business, he can appreciate the gesture. Two clips, and then the bulky shape of the pistol as requested, a hint of twisting disdain creasing his expression, but only for a brief moment, obscured when he brings his rough hands up to rub at his mouth in thought, before he extends out a hand. Pauses, eyes flicking to Nicolai's face, forehead wrinkling along with the raise of his eyebrows.
"May I?"
"Of course," slogs out through thick Russian accent, sounding heavy like weights on his syllables in comparison to the thin knife edge of Samuel's own second-generation accent.
Picking up the pistol, he feels no particular excitement for the object, a convoluted and mundane way to go about things so simple as killing a man. Or a woman. Samuel being a simple man, one of the earth, mineral and rock and iron in its purest forms; mountains and dust. The weapon feels overworked and unnecessary, but he feigns interest while the gunrunner's eyes are on him, pad of his thumb brushing along its contours.
"Actually," he says. "I do have another business proposition for you."
They're alone in the room, a bare place that rests above Shooters Bar and Bistro, which Samuel found to be a little clever. There is, however, a thug standing outside — Nicolai's man or someone of the establishment, Samuel couldn't tell and doesn't currently know, but he doesn't risk a glance towards the shadow just outside the door. Nicolai is already scowling, and Samuel places the gun back down as if to make him less uncomfortable.
"I bring you gun you ask," Nicolai says, heavy eyelids making suspicious slits of his eyes. "You bring me money. You have money?"
"No," Samuel admits, freely, and doesn't stand when Nicolai goes to do so, watches impassively as fabric is pulled back over the weaponry. The disappointment of a bad deal doesn't apparently seem to phase the Russian in favour of being economical with his time, of which none belongs to Samuel. "But that doesn't mean I don't have something else for you. I hear you're in the killing business, Nicolai." He gives a crooked smile, and spreads both hands. "So I was looking to get in a room with you."
"You hear nothing," is reverberated out somewhere deep in Nicolai's chest as he goes to tuck gun and clips into bag he'd brought them in, a thing that looks better suited for sports gear than killing tools. "And you have nothing. Good day to you."
By now, Samuel's taken out a squat vial of black ink — more or less to fidget with, angling the edge of its flat bottom against the table to spin it between the cage of his fingers, the densely black mineral within glimmering and winking in the light struggling through the window. "Your sister died in the Rookery, did she not?" he asks, casually, and is only a little surprised when Nicolai's first reaction is to bark with laughter.
The sound of a zipper zwizzes in the air as guns are gone for good. "You have no money, but you have Sylar?"
"Better. I could get your sister back. Nina Norwich, wasn't that what she was going by?"
"She died. You know. Year ago. Hundreds of witnesses." Weetnessez. "You come by here too late, Mr. Samuel. There is no saving the dead."
"I told you," and Samuel allows a little bit of severity to enter his voice, "that I could get your sister back. Now why would I promise a thing like that, if I didn't already know the circumstances under which she perished?" He looks up again, into Nicolai's expression that now seems carved out of stone, and wrestles back the tic of a smile that threatens to emerge. "I've heard you're good for getting jobs done, for the right price. I have the power to not only bring Nina back from the dead, but it could be like it would never have happened. Whether through our own means of adjustin' the circumstances, but I wouldn't say no to something cruder— "
His hand clenches protectively around the vat of ink when the table shudders under the force of Nicolai slamming his hands down against table top, mouth going into a line and an eyebrow raising in question. He manages not ask, Am I going too fast for you?
"You prove it. Prove you can do this thing and I will murder one hundred of your enemies. But is okay. I do not think you can. You have talk, no walk. And," he takes his weight off the table, mouth sneering, "I am not in that business. Guns only."
Samuel splays his hands. "I would not make a deal with you so lightly, Mr. Novikov. Let me show you something."