What You Want


tavisha_icon.gif teo_icon.gif

Scene Title What You Want
Synopsis You have to know.
Date February 20, 2009

Shooters Bar and Bistro

A place that used to be a cafe and is making a slow progression towards being a dive bar. During the day, the balcony and a good portion of the sidewalk is taken up by outdoor chairs and tables, where people can enjoy a beer as well as a sandwich or whatever else is on their menu - a decent, if simply array of bar food. During the evening, unless it's a warm night, these are taken inside, and the kitchens are closed. A wide variety of beer is available, along with hard liquor and maybe a few wine labels, but nothing fancy. The interior decor is similar to traditional British pubs, with a hardwood bar and brick wall. There's an old pool table towards the back, along with a dart board. The building is actually two storeys high, but whatever is upstairs is inaccessible to the general public.

It actually surprises him when he gets an answer this time. The bartender conceals his exasperation and amusement, extracts a slip of paper from somewhere within the bar, and slides it across to Tavisha who only blinks in surprise. It shouldn't really be surprising, all things considered, but in a bleak world, few things turn out the way you expect them to.

Late afternoon in the Rookery filters ashy light through the windows of Shooters Bar (and sort of Bistro), and a couple of early starters lurking around the corners, nursing beers and conversation. A slight murmur of cutlery filters in from the kitchen as it starts to shut down in preparation for the evening crowd, and the bartender goes back to polishing the wooden bar, dragging a rag back and forth like out of some Western movie, not that Tavisha would necessarily make the reference. He steps back with a thank you, unfolding the piece of paper.

Roof. Hurry. 16:00.

Rather stupidly, Tavisha can't help but glance up at the ceiling as if that would tell him anything apart from the fact it hasn't been cleaned in a year, and crumples the note in his hand as he goes to peer at his 70s watch strapped around his wrist, still in good working order. He's about forty minutes late. Here's to hoping white knights have patience. After asking which way to be pointed, Tavisha abandons the main room of the bar at a brisk pace, moving upstairs, and out into the colder climate of the building's rooftop.

It's too cold for people to make use of the quasi-public area, old rainwater dousing the plastic seats and tables in icy dampness. The change in temperature won't bother him, dressed in the same coat Teo saw him last and a grey hoodie beneath that, dark jeans, boots. He stuffs his hands into his pockets as he emerges, appearing almost self-conscious.

Apparently white knights have patience enough to wait forty minutes, and also enough clothes to have changed since Sylar saw them last. Where 'them' is 'him,' Teodoro Laudani, more often know as Teo, gnawing on the strings of his own broad-striped hoodie, seated cross-legged on the only plastic table that was granted reprieve from the stinging insults of meteorology by a sagging sheet of blue tarpaulin that he's since pushed off.

There's something mildly neurotic about chewing on the drawstrings of one's clothes. Teo's in a bit of a mood. He's rarely out of a mood these days. Cigarettes for breakfast, rumination instead of sleep, regular exercise by way of regularly getting his ass kicked by ex-Mossad.

The lifestyle suits him, oddly enough. He hasn't been sick nor lost weight, and as long as his complexion is left unscathed, his vanity leaves room for weird little nervous ticks. However, he does happen to have enough a sense of decorum to spit the braided cotton out of his mouth when he sees Sylar. That token self-consciousness warrants a brief squint, like a subtle double-take of confusion. Brushing past that, Teo unfolds his legs from their gangly configuration and toss his feet off the edge of the table and onto the concrete. "Buongiorno," he says. "I was worried you wouldn't make it."

Finding Teo isn't hard. It's not a large area, and he's the only other person. Tavisha approaches for a few meandering steps, trying to unwind the mysterious tension that's seemed to knot his shoulders, down his neck, his back. It's visible in his posture beneath the tailored green fabric, for those adept at body language reading, but slowly fades. There's no where practical to sit, so he winds up lingering several feet away, a few inches shy of a puddle in cracked paved tile, the neglect of this little area defining it.

"I almost didn't," Tavisha says, with a note of apology in his voice. "I almost forgot to check. I wasn't sure." As to what he wasn't sure of, he doesn't elaborate, although it could be guessed. The suggestion of correspondence wasn't met with a hell of a lot of enthusiasm, but then again, Tavisha's spent the last week learning more as to why that may be.

Self-pity is never particularly attractive. He shrugs once and offers a fleeting smile, a raise of an eyebrow as he adds, feet scuffing once against the wet pavement, "I figured out what you meant, about sky. The birds. I found Eileen." In case he wanted to know, perhaps, but it seems like a good segue into, "Thanks."

"Non problema," Teo replies, prompt with good breeding, despite that it's a rather blatant lie. There are a lot of problems — with him reintroducing a serial killer to one of his old abilities, showing him old faces, not— killing him, or at least trying. The magnitude of this absurdity seems to compound when he is exchange polite words with the amnesiac on the roof. He stands up. His mouth flattens, widens out into an expression halfway between a pensive frown and a reciprocal smile.

Somewhere behind him and below, he hears a horn blare, traffic sloshing around gutters full of runoff and shouting drunkards nearly run over. "Sorry — I shouldn't play dumb," he admits, presently, dragging four blunt fingernails up the back of his neck. He squints up at Tavisha, rueful. "I talked to her myself.

"Eileen. Found Gillian too, coincidentally." His hand curls away from his collar. "Little women thinks you should get a second shot at life, straighten out from the whole… fuckin'…" he flattens a hand, bisects his forehead by way of demonstration. Either that, or it's a joke on the military. "Other people— figure you've found out by now. There are— skeptics." Skeptics. Teo isn't very good at being tactful. Italian: it's genetic. He could be worse, arguably.

If not by much. "So…" His eyes blink cold quartz refractions in the winter light. "What do you want to do?"

Skeptics. Tavisha angles a glance away from Teo, as if perhaps the horizon towards the left needed briefly close inspection, but it's mostly to hide the weary irritation at the news, a hand rising to scratch his forehead, a little unwittingly mimicking the fake line Teo drew across his own.

Tavisha didn't really get the reference. Which might be a good thing, better not to draw a diagram of reference for the man. But he understands the implication behind the words, if not the gesture. "It's probably smart, to be skeptical," he says after a pause, hand returning to his pocket, gaze return to Teo's eyes. "I don't blame them." Whoever 'them' entails.

Avoiding, a little, answering the baffling question. What does he want to do? What can he do? Tavisha breathes in deep a lungful of cold air, lets it out again after a moment. "I think that depends on them," he says, emphasis on the word, perhaps a prod of elaboration. Gillian, for now, is a subject left untouched.

There's a fractional jump of Teo's eyebrow at that: Sylar withholding the blame. It makes sense, for all that it probably doesn't make a difference. Not to those who still hold him culpable for countless misdeeds, anyway. "They," he starts, finally, "are the government of the United States. Law enforcement. Probably someone else, too. Framed you, apparently.

"I was—" this is embarrassing to admit, and he has the good grace to lower his eyes briefly, studying the knees of Tavisha's jeans for a brief moment, before tips his head back up onto axis. "Misinformed. 'Long with most of the world. You're not the Midtown fucko. And I think it's going to be pretty fucking hard to get people to stop hunting you. Or to understand that the part of you that caused most harm could be controlled."

He jigs his right shoulder up underneath his ear. Refrains, somehow, from worrying his lip with his teeth. The line of his mouth curves: gallows humor. As if to take the edge off the rest of his words, he captions, quietly, "Bad news first, right?"

Teo has Tavisha's complete, if befuddled attention from the word 'framed' and onwards, a frown pulling at his mouth and expression serious as he listens, absorbs this information, tries to make sense of it. Bad news first? Hold on. Tavisha shakes his head, a hand coming up as if he could perhaps halt this train of thought by showing off his palm, fingers spread. "Wait," he says, and gives a crooked smile, even if the severity never really lifts. "You know more about me than I do. What do you mean, I'm not— it was in the newspapers, I saw it."

The whole world wouldn't lie about something like that, would they? Well, what would he know. "I didn't destroy New York City," he finally sums it up for himself, hand lowering again. His world view shifts just a little, tilts in an angle more pleasing. Despite the world apparently wanting to gun him down plus the murders he still is apparently capable of, the news that he did kill hundreds of thousands of people on a whim is good news.

Then, confusion. A subtle shift, he wasn't really leaping for joy just now, but he did relax slightly. Now, the severity returns, shaking his head. "Why do they think I did it? Or, I guess— why frame me?"

"I don't know." Teodoro isn't exactly lying, although he can make an extremely obvious guess or three. Peter Petrelli happens to be the brother of the President. And appears to have been given a free pass on massacring thousands shortly before Nathan started the witch hunt for Evolved all over the United States of America. Genuine ill temper shadows his features, a stubborn line to his brow and angle to his jaw. It's as close to sympathy as a serial killer could expect from his clanking tin-bucket counterpart. "I could try to help you find out, I think."

He pushes his hands into his pockets, his shoulders squaring above the right-angles of locked elbows. "You didn't destroy New York City," he repeats by way of agreement. A wind pushes his back, dragging a blunt chill over the round convex of his shaven head. "All right. That's not bad news, I guess — I used that term too liberally." Teo sets blunt fingertips into the heels of his hands and blanks his face. Buzz, buzz, goes the wind. Why are you here? Why the fuck are you here? "But I heard Sylar killed a man recently, signor."

At first, Teo gets a blank look of incomprehension. What? And then— of course. How quickly he forgets. Or perhaps, he underestimated how much poking around Teo might do, he didn't tell him the Pancratium, but of course, Teo did speak to Eileen. Tavisha glances down once realisation visibly dawns on him, and he shifts uncomfortably where he stands, minutely away from Teo although not entirely consciously. "Sylar did kill a man," he confirms, somewhat grimly, then seeks out Teo's gaze again, about to launch into an earnest attempt to make him understand. "It was in the fighting ring. He threw me up against the cage, I got run through by— there are hooks."

He swallows dryly, conjuring up this memory not entirely pleasant, because it comes in vivid detail, but he strives to anyway. "I would have died, but I just— I tapped into a new power. I healed. He was dead before I could do anything. They probably told you he turned into dust. They'd be right."

Sharp movements as he extracts a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, a hopefully working lighter slipped into the thin film of plastic taking into his palm as well. A thin white stick picked out by searching fingertips, a flicker of flame later protected by a cupped hand, and as a thin plume of acrid smoke rises later, he offers the pack out to Teo, as if perhaps the man shouldn't be wary of coming close to someone who apparently kills with a touch. "I haven't done it again," he mutters.

The fact that Teo often knows better rarely means he doesn't do stuff anyway. That being said, his hand sways backward before making the forward grasp at the box of cigarettes. He pushes the lid back up with his thumb, borrows a cancer stick to put between his teeth. Ducks his head, obligingly, to accept a pip of fire with it also. He's a social smoker. It's only polite. Also, the least of his problems.

Determining the validity of Tavisha's explanation is difficult and possibly pointless, but he ends up staring at the older man's dark eyes from under the troubled knot of his own brow, straining to understand as a fan struggles through humid air. He arrives at something that feels like understanding. Takes a moment to reflect, himself and with an inward grimace, on how much poking around he does. It's good to know, though. If it's going to happen, it's good to know.

That Kazimir Volken lives on. "Yeah," he says. The cigarette's slender shape flips between his long, scar-notched fingers. "I figured shit like that is going to happen if you don't remember. Or worse. I w's kind of hoping that'd be your plan. Until then, I guess I'll ask idiotic leading questions." He glances up, some approximation of hope or optimism shallow in the standing color of his eyes.

"What do you want to do?"

Everyone on the roof now has a cigarette, something to look at, do with their hands, while silence stretches. Tavisha makes good use of this, studying the glowing embers before expertly flicking the cigarette to let a fine fall of ash drift in its own time to the wet ground. Wind catches at cigarette smoke, pulls it away as Tavisha breathes it out between words. "I'm meant to be working to get my memory back," he says, a shrug. One that isn't awkward or despairing, just a shrug. Relaxing, finally, in Teo's presence. Perhaps admitting to murder has the affect. "But everywhere I go, the people who know me, think it's a bad idea. That I'd just turn into…"

Well, that's the entire crux of it, and needs no explaining. Tavisha waves a hand again before bringing his cigarette up once more. "Him," he finishes. "Or think I'd be better off not knowing. So I don't know what I'm meant to be doing, I'm sorry. Idiotic questions get idiotic answers." This is said in a tone kind enough to not be a jab, somehow, too apologetic to be caustic, which doesn't seem to match with— well, everything, but specifically his usually severe, low tone of voice.

"Do you have any suggestions? I'm hiding out here in the Rookery, so I have some time to stay away from the authorities, but… you mentioned someone else."

"I don't know what you're meant to be doing," Teo replies, an odd clip to his voice, a small bubble of stress bubbling up and fizzling out like carbonation to fluid. It's gone in the space of an eye-blink, however, short-lived enough to be rolled over, buried, and smoothed into the outgoing tide of Tavisha's kindness and apology. "And I guess I don't really care."

He strikes at the line of his cigarette with a pinkie, flinging ash away on a foggy arc. The oxidised particle matter finds its way into the puddle Sylar had parked near. Floats for a split second before it proceeds to sink. "No one fucking knows.

"There's no precedent. This isn't the kind of shit that happens every day — not even in fucking post-Bomb Manhattan. You're an amnesiac serial killer operating out of an illegal fight ring while the Feds and some magnificent political clusterfuck is trying to make you dead. You have a — girlfriend, or something, who loves you. More Evolved abilities than anybody else on the fucking planet, I believe. One of them maybe made you kill people. I don't know of a court of justice or psychologist in the world who's qualified to deal with the bullshit you have, ragazzo.

"So I figure it starts and ends with that question. Idiotic or not. What do you want?" Given it wasn't helpful the first or second times he phrased it, God knows why Teo thinks it's worth saying again.

Something that resembles impatience contorts his voice, though the curse words — and there are so very many of them — come and go without emphasis or heat, ordinary vocabulary for him, neutral as 'book' or 'tallow.' "'Least right now? Sex? Money? Normal life? Just survive? Love and a proportional return in investment? To write a famous play? Nothing?"

Still unhelpful, despite the repetition, the vehemence, but perhaps that's only because Tavisha thinks his answer is stupid, guarded privately as some unattainable thing that doesn't bear mentioning. But the verbal shaking of metaphorical shoulders at least sparks frustration, hesitation finally gone from his voice when he speaks.

"I want a life," he confirms, that irritation evident, a flare of anger. Regardless as to whether this man is the source of his problems, which he certainly is not. "A normal life, yes. What I want is it all handed back to me. I want to remember who I am. But apparently I was a monster to the rest of the world except for exactly two people, and I'm not going to have a normal life, regardless of whether I remember things or not. People are going to hunt me and kill me, apparently, for shit I don't even remember. How am I meant to atone or defend myself if I don't even understand why I did the things I did? It's not fair."

Breathe. With that unhelpful rant out of the way… Tavisha rolls his eyes at himself and falls into silence for a moment, hand up to rub the back of his neck. "Sorry," is muttered, another drag of his cigarette before he gets irritated with that, too, and tosses it into the water with one last sigh of smoke. His arms wrap around himself comfortably. "Eileen called me family and then told me it would be better if I forgot I ever knew her," he says, grimly, unabashed bitterness showing when he speaks of the failed meeting. Failed in some ways. She also told him he was a hero. But apparently, only a handful of people know that. Maybe only she does. "I don't know what will happen if I talk to Gillian. I want to. What did— you told her about me, didn't you?" That's not an accusation, there's some hope in his voice. He'd rather not break the news again.

And Teo pisses off the amnesiac Evolved serial killer. Not recommend methodology, he's aware, but it gets the job done. Long, short, he finds that answer — heartbreaking. In the end, it turns out he isn't smart enough to back away, though at least he's too intelligent to let a smile onto his face at that absurd gesture, an eye-roll, on Sylar's face. It's like Photoshop. Infamous features, the big nose and heavy malice of brows, contorted around pedestrian self-exasperation and frustration.

More convincing than all the doe eyes and sworn valor Teo can think of.

Nicotine smoke pulls in, pushes back out. He doesn't stare at the hug Sylar shares with himself, lids his eyes against the acrid sting of his own cigarette's vaporous gray runoff. "Eileen's trying to protect you. She thinks of herself as something of a monster too, I think. It's what family is for. Hard decisions, if not always the right choices." The filter bobs to a halt and he pulls the cylindrical obstruction free to exhale again. He brushes ash off his sleeve. He is silent for a moment.

Hesitating, probably. There's a sound of swallowing in the back of Tavisha's hearing, and he looks up at Tavisha again. "I told her about you. She wants to help you remember. 'N' change. You're damn right about defending yourself, though. You'll need to do that. Probably protect her too. Pretty sure one of the first things you need to do is stop running around calling yourself Sylar. Second—" molars click and grind, hesitation. "Shapeshift."

As to what Eileen defines herself as, Tavisha only listens. He hasn't set the birds searching for her, he hasn't hopefully listened to those that have passed by, respecting her decision - as hard as it may be, as wrong as it may be. He nods, once, let's the topic go by like so much cigarette smoke between them, own hands gripping onto the opposite sleeves of his coat in his loose folded-arm stance. Brooding. At least he's built for it, with the dark features and the serious brow, looking down at his feet for a moment, then back up as the next saving grace is talked back towards.

Along with advice, to which Tavisha's lip curls in agreement, and then— "Shapeshift," he repeats, without comprehension. Shifting into shapes. This, for about three seconds, makes about as much sense to Tavisha as Swahili, but something clicks into place, the penny drops— "I can do that?" he says, a hand curling inwards towards his chest. Moi? Pause. "Well that's— " Incredibly helpful. And a little late coming, but…

Uncertainty creeps over Tavisha's features, and doubtfully, he asks, "You wouldn't happen to know how that works, would you?" He could change his face. His name. He could start again completely. He grips metaphorical reins for a moment, because nothing but nothing is that easy, but— he could at least walk the streets sometimes without waiting for hell to descend upon his shoulders. He could get off this forsaken island, at least for a while.

Yep. Sylar could get off this forsaken island, walk the streets, change his name, face, start again completely, and why did Teodoro think this is a good idea for all the same reasons that everybody else think it's a bad one, give or take a little sentimental faith in the human spirit or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Uncertainty is one sentiment Teo knows better than to show on his face; he keeps that front of his head still, except to breathe, blink and speak. "I'm sorry: I wouldn't wouldn't. Gillian might.

"From what I understood, you copied people. There was one face I met you with before. Blond kid. Younger than me, big eyes, a lot of odd points to his face. You could probably work it out if you thought about it, a little; a lot of abilities are fairly intuitive, from what I understand." Absently, he glances across the roof and back at the gray-and-brown rust of the door's dented rectangle. Occasionally, Teo forgets that appropriate English isn't proper English and, like many foreigners, starts to speak slightly too textbook perfect.

When he's distracted, mostly, and he is now, squinting at Sylar's face as if expecting a reversion to one that he remembers in the course of this conversation. Incredibly helpful. Most of all for keeping both the serial killer and his Goth girlfriend out of the Feds' crosshairs.

Also, immortal ex-KGB shapeshifting yacht assassins.

Intuitive. It had been very easy, to push himself off the hook impaled and slowly tearing through his body, to turn his enemy into ash and dust clouds. That was certainly intuitive. A small nod. Pointy-faced blonde kid, but he's can't really summon up a face based on that, and apparently, this ability requires imagination, not browsing. Nothing happens, anyway, and Tavisha's gaze is sharp when he meets Teo's scrutiny. "I'll work on it," he says, a little defensively. No need to fail and fail again at his ability in the presence of someone else, intuitive or not.

But that name again, Gillian. Perhaps the fractured dark haired nymph without a face he can remember from his dreams, the better kind of dreams, the ones that force him to remember that beyond memory and thought, he's human. His gaze down goes to track the edges of the puddle just beside him, the water reflecting nothing, only emphasising the dirty ground in lies stagnant upon.

"When can I meet her?" Nonchalance, it's not too hard to fake, but nonchalance in itself is sort of inherently put on. It seems like a first step. Towards know what he wants to do, as he's been asked so many times now.

Fortunately, they're spared a glaring stand-off and too-close scrutiny by the fact that Teodoro is going to cooperate anyway. He got what he came for — this time, anyway, and there's more yet to be had with a little luck, prayer, and ongoing health. Leaning his axis slightly sideways, he digs into his pocket, long fingers finding the smooth contours of a disposable cellphone. He extricates it with a quick yank, offers it to the other man, palm up. "She'll call you on this.

"I'd prefer it if you figured out shapeshifting before then. If not, I'll try and help you two work something else out." Probably involving teleporters. The whole thing will probably involve teleporters. Reawakening a compulsive Evolved serial killer isn't something to be undertaken without a certain number of precautions, surely, though yes, Teo is aware that that sounds easier in theory than in practice. "It's probably wise for you to stay away from Eileen awhile," he notes, then, slowly.

"Some Feds knew you two were — associates."

The phone is taken, inspected, graze drifting back up to Teo for a moment before the device is pocketed with a nod of implied thanks. Waiting for messages, waiting for calls. Perhaps it would be paranoid to think that it's easier for everyone else this way, to cut loose that lifeline if need be. Perhaps it's just logical. Tavisha doesn't object, either way. This form of communication is passive but acceptable, for now.

"I'll work on it," he repeats, on the topic of shapeshifting, defensiveness gone from his voice in favour of reassurance. "I have a friend. He helps me with my abilities - controlling them when I find them." To demonstrate, Tavisha holds out a hand, palm up, much like the way Teo had offered him the phone - except his hand is bare, save for the puddle of water that begins to gather there, drawing from the air. He turns his hand to face down, but not a drop falls - clear rivulets snake around his hand and fingers, rotating tracks of the gathered water, before he shakes his hand free of it, letting the droplets spill.

Not all powers are deadly and scary - save for the fact Sylar did drown a man, but that is neither here nor there. "If you're breaking the bank, getting here and back to Manhattan, you might consider asking him through me sometime - he takes passengers back and forth for a fee. He asks for as much cash as anyone but…" A shrug, Tavisha seeming confident that a discount is possible. He, after all, does not know about teleporters.

"You don't have to worry about that." That? Oh. Tavisha shakes his head. "I wouldn't know where to find her if I wanted to. Other than the sky." And that only tells you so much. He dries his hand off on the sleeve of his other arm, not really looking at Teo. "Sounds like she was right. It's safer this way."

"Just for now, signor," Teo replies, as if that softens the truth — as if Tavisha needs some of that, his reassurance. By now, his cigarette's practically spent, though little of it wound up actually cycling around in his lungs. The stub drops from his fingers, seesaws down, burning and flaring its point of orange incandescence, until it stops on the ground below and he can grind his heel into it. "Another boatman's always good to know," he acknowledges with a smile. "Sure. What's his name?

"And it'd be a good idea, I think. Also. To leave Pancratium before you meet Gillian. She's Evolved, and doesn't need to be anywhere near that bullshit. No offense." He looks the older man in the eye, briefly, long enough to give his words the weight of sincere concern, though not confrontationality.

Then, "You going to ask me, some point, what I want in return for all this, or your presence of mind really taking that long to get back to you?" He grins. Shows teeth. Somehow, despite the shaven head, scrappy clothes, cigarettes, implied presence of weapons, the expression fails to look bloodthirsty or ruthless in the slightest. Teo just looks younger.

That draws a slight chuckle from Tavisha - a tired one, which only makes him seem older. "Figured you'd name a price in your own time," he says, which is a lie, more truthfully adding, "Or maybe it was all done out of the goodness of your heart. I'm not stopping you from correcting me, everyone wants something. And his name is Jack. There's a bar at the harbor, you probably know it by now, the Pelican. You could find him there, mornings and evenings."

And now the harder things to tackle, a wince pulling at his features as he glances away, taking in the horizon that is Staten Island. "I can't," Tavisha says. "I'm sorry. The man who helps run the Pancratium— I owe him my life. He's going to help me get my memories back, he says he knows people. I'm not really ready to completely burn that bridge. But I won't let them hurt anyone. I promise."

A shrug, a chin up in a nod. "What do you want?"

The Sicilian drops his head slightly, acknowledges both the lie and the alternative with the grace of rueful humility. The fight club owner goes unremarked upon for now. Rumors of abductions and coercion surround the combatants, but Teo's left to bank on the hope that Sylar, of all people, could protect one he loves. Seems a lot to ask for, but fuck, if power and passion won't do it, he might as well just retire right now.

Maybe next month. "Nothing, really. Figure you'd be a good one to have for help, if shit happens, but…" His mouth finds a straight line and he lifts one shoulder, half a shrug. "Goodness of my heart works just as well, thank you. If you can be — happy," the word located with some difficulty, "and don't kill anybody for a shit reason, you're… refreshing. I like to think doing something decent means more if it's harder and less obvious, but then, I'm Catholic. I don't know if you're familiar with the rhetoric.

"Being tested, and all that shit." He puts one hand into his other, rubs knuckles into the rough hollow of his palm. "Take care of yourself."

"You too. I don't know if I am either," Tavisha replies with a twist of a smile, eyes hooding. A step back, retreating towards the door leading back into the building. "But I can take your word for it." He's been taking Teo's word on a several things, really. His hands hide back into his pockets as he shrugs. "You're helping me," he says. "I can help you." Empty promises, or vague pledges for the future. He's pretty sure he can't reunite Teo with lost loved ones, but you never do know, do you?

"Thanks. Again." Leaving those two words behind, Tavisha disappears back into the building, leaving nothing behind but a wasted cigarette and a few foot prints.

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