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[complexharmony]

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[complexharmony]

((continued from here))

I can be anywhere I need to be in no time at all. Carried there on the wings of an angel, and the sins of a devil.

( It was a pretty metaphor at least. In actuality, Sylar's method of flight is more levitation, a gift so generously donated, and very recently. He's still washing the blood off his hands when he sends that message. Telekinesis worked wonders for his texting speed.

A liberal use of soap and bleach rids his skin of the evidence and a thorough cleaning of his nails takes care of the brain matter. Then... lift-off. It's exhilarating, he's like a rocket minus jet fuel.He lands somewhere close to the address, in a tree, catching several branches on the way down. With a frustrated wave he sends all bits of branches off and out of his body. A moment to heal and brush away the dirt from his clothes and hair, then he'll stroll casually towards the spot, looking for...

Well. Actually. He's not entirely certain. He sends off a message. )

Should I look for a bowl of nuggets?
What do you look like?

[heavymetalgears]

( This is the weirdest blind date he's ever ... wait, this is the only blind date he's been on, now that he thinks about it. Or, at least, he can't remember being on a blind one before. How he got this person's number was beyond him. He can't recall the night before, and whoever's number he meant to obtain was likely placed in his phone incorrectly, either by himself or by another?

He tries not to worry too much about the details. It'll just piss him off. This encounter happened because he overdid it the night before. It wasn't his first, nor will it be his last. Fuck he felt dumb though, it should be his last time doing it, but he knows better.

He receives another text, and he snorts. He hadn't actually ordered a kid's meal. He was on his third beer and the second basket of bread, however. He calls over a waiter and gives them instructions before he texts back. )

Tell them you're with Hank.

[complexharmony]

( He's contemplating how he should play this when the next message arrives. The meek, subservient watchmaker, easily malleable? Or lay bare the confident predator he was, unafraid and in control?

The decision is made for him when he spots the assortment of beer bottles on the table and empty bread baskets. That'd explain the desire for a good time, dismissing his offerings as 'terrible'. Or, did the man even know those messages were sent to the same recipient? He smiles in a sneer that doesn't fully form, tempered by some modicum of control. Oh, this ought to be fun.

Gabriel sits down, affecting an easygoing air, found on countless other college students between exams. Young, eager, varying degrees of innocence. Something the old relic would enjoy. His voice is soft cotton and kitten purrs when he speaks. )

Hi, Hank. I'm Gabriel. We, ah, we were texting back and fourth...?

( His hands worry together, tucking themselves into his layered sleeves before he moves one of them forward and offers his hand to shake. )

[heavymetalgears]

( Hank spends his time in limbo watching everyone that passes. Most of them wore the restaurant's uniform and was, obviously, not his mystery guest. Not too long of a wait before a promising candidate follows a waiter, and right past Hank's table, he pulls in an audible breath and huffs it right back out. He felt like an idiot. He had no idea what he was doing, in a sense that he had no idea what prompted him to follow through with this sort of encounter.

Well, a few things came to mind, but he doesn't like to acknowledge the insight he has into his behaviors. This particular one stems from loneliness and the need, the desire, for human connection. Hank's more common behaviors derived from recklessness and suicidal ideation. He lifts a beer to his lips and swallows back the remaining last gulps. He sets the beer down. His eyes fall to another waiter leading a young kid. Even as the dark-haired boy sits down at his table, Hank's waiting for the stranger to pass him.

Until he says his name. Gabriel? Didn't this kid say something about fucking flying with an angel? What the fuck... )

You're fucking shitting me. ( He stares at the hand outstretched to him. He neglects to take it. )

[complexharmony]

( Gabriel releases a small huff of air, somewhere between an exhale and laughter, accentuated by a wry smile. His tongue flickers out briefly licking at his upper lip as he draws his hand back. )

Ah, no, I'm afraid I am not in the habit of doing... well, that.

( The smile shifts to something akin to nervousness, his eyes wide and unassuming. But there's something within them, if anyone looked close enough, a keen sharpness just beneath the disguise. When the waiter comes by, Gabriel orders exactly what was promised: nuggets with a side of mac n cheese, plus apple juice. It would be terribly unhealthy, he knew, but it wasn't something he needed to worry about any longer.

Food handled, he watches Hank for a moment, taking in the disheveled appearance, the hair too long and beard too stringy. He could see how he worked, predict his next move. But what broke him? What secrets lie within that mind? He cants his head, focusing now on the wristwatch. Exactly twelve seconds tick by. )

Your watch is two minutes slow. I could fix that for you. ( He looks up, meeting those tired eyes directly. ) If you'll permit me...?

[complexharmony]

((continued from here.))

( Sylar is out of his seat the very second Mohinder slides from his chair, moving quickly to catch the fallen scientist in his arms. He watches his slumber, reaching a hand up to gently smooth dark curls away from his forehead. )

Sorry, Mohinder. The more things change... Well. You know.

( The scientist looks so innocent, even peaceful, Sylar stares a second longer. His mouth feels dry in spite of the tea he'd had. He licks his lips, squashing the wicked impulse to kiss Mohinder in this singularity where their moralizing and history no matter mattered. But... There are some lines even Sylar wouldn't cross. Finally, carefully, he sets Mohinder down upon the carpet. How close it was to where he'd fallen after a reversal of circumstances. It felt like a lifetime ago.

He works quickly, a mix of physical exertion and telekinesis, gathering as much of Mohinder's research from his desk as possible. He's surprised to find a syringe among the usual indecipherable notes and beakers. Oh. Now this looks important. He brings that along with the laptop. Everything is bundled into the car he had waiting outside, taking up the majority of the trunk. Next, a suitcase for clothes, toiletries, even tea bags, packed with some attempt at organization but obvious impatience with the unfolded outfits. At least the toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss wound up in a ziploc bag and not just thrown in haphazardly.

Finally, Mohinder gets bundled into the backseat along with a blanket and pillow stolen from the couch. Far better than waking up duct taped to a chair with a syringe jabbed into his arm. He'd be lying if he said the thought of putting Mohinder in some kind of bondage hadn't crossed his mind (multiple times) but now wasn't the time. Despite everything he did (and still continued to do), some part of him wanted Mohinder to trust him.

It's why he'd given him a small dose, one that would wear off after an hour or so. By that point, they would already be on a long, lonely stretch of road surrounded by nature and the setting sun. )

[chase_evolution]

[As Mohinder begins to wake up, his body starts to fight the sedative. It's not exactly a normal fight-or-flight response kicking in, as the drug does its work. But instead, Mohinder groans and thrashes a bit as his consciousness returns. Instincts an hour too late have him almost falling off the seat.]

Wha-?

[There's silence for a long moment as he opens his eyes and surveys his surroundings. He certainly wasn't expecting to be in the back seat of a car, tucked in with his own blanket. Still, it doesn't take long before he's kicking up a fuss. The stretch of Americana outside his window is ominous enough.]

I should've known better than to expect anything less from you! Where are you taking me? I swear, if this is all a lead-up to murdering me horribly, you could've just done so in the comfort of my own home.

[Even after all that, he sounds more offended than scared.]

[complexharmony]

( Sylar could live without music. It was just one of those creature comforts you learned to give up when you were constantly on the run from, well, everyone. But to have it so close by and be unable to flick it on? It was its own form of torture. But, no matter how much he altered his own dna, he was still human. Lacking the radio, he'd begun whistling softly and quietly, to an aimless tune. Maybe it was from an old 70s song, maybe not. The sound fades as Mohinder begins to stir. Sylar watches him from the rearview mirror, soon rolling his eyes when the doctor reacted so... typical. )

Did you not hear anything I said before? If I'd wanted you dead, Mohinder, you would've been. Honestly. You're too important to me for that. ( He would absolutely not think further about the possible meanings. ) Clearly not case with the company or Noah or whoever.

( He flicks on the radio, finally, tuning it to some classical rock. "Back in Black". Perfect. He keeps the volume low, even slows the car a little, before continuing in that same casual tone. )

There's some bottles of water back there. Speaking from experience, I know what waking up from that drug feels like.

[chase_evolution]

[This? This is not at all what Mohinder expected. He's not tied up, he's not hanging from the ceiling. Sylar isn't gloating about the drugged tea. The lack of tension makes things feel almost awkward, if he were to be honest. He finds the mentioned bottles, hesitates for a moment, then cracks it open and takes a few gulps of water. He is quite thirsty.]

Noah, you say. [Easier to broach that subject than the 'important to me' one.] I wasn't aware you were on a first-name basis with Mr. Bennet. Is he still alive?

[complexharmony]

((continued from here.))

( Oh don't let appearances fool you, Ethan. You might still die today. Sylar really hasn't made up his mind yet. Probably won't. Because you're paying for his coffee and that is important. First meal of the day, y'know.

Also? You're cute. So there's that, too. Sylar props one cheek up with his knuckles, scoffing with amusement at the question. )

I mean I was an 80's kid with a mom who liked choir and country. So, yes, is the answer to that question. Listened to anything to break up the monotony. Oooh but let me guess... You're more of a Top 40 guy with a side of indie-punk for the hipster cred.

[shadowrose]

[ ethan does, technically, have an infiltration job to get to, but there's at least six hours left on that deadline. he'll be fine, he's sure of it. that's what he tells himself when he looks sylar in the eyes, taking note of how, ah, handsome he really is. ]

alright, fair enough. no top 40 for me, but you hit the nail on the head with the indie punk.

[ ethan kicks the chair across from him to slide it out towards sylar; he can't be assed to stand up and pull it out himself. he then gestures to the coffee that sits opposite him, untouched. ]

you can sit down. i got you a vanilla latte.

[ when he speaks, his tone is a little light, almost like he's searching for approval. and... maybe he is. ]

[complexharmony]

( Those eyes are either caramel brown or dying forest green, depending on the lighting. They stare right back, noting easily just how eager this guy is. It's almost charming enough for him to overlook the wrong order. He takes it in stride, however, not getting too overly perturbed. )

Close. But, the heart wants what the heart wants. And I've never been a fan of 'vanilla'.

( Sylar goes to the counter, orders the dirty chai latte he had been craving, then returns to the table, sliding onto the offered seat. )

They'll be bringing you the bill. Amazing what one can get accomplished with an 'aw, shucks' Southern accent here.

[shadowrose]

[ ouch. alright, he's a guy that knows what he wants. it's fine, ethan can survive with two lattes, and his confidence that he carries himself with is just sexy enough to not be obnoxious. longer term, who knows, but for now he's happy to enjoy this for what it is.

and then the bomb is dropped, and ethan gives a soft exhale.

of course. ]

ah, sure. i guess that's what i get for trusting a stranger. you usually one to try and pull one over on people like me? am i part of a ploy, or something? a longer con?

[playslions]

(((continued from here.)))

The finer points of mortality vs immortality isn't something he's ever really thought about. He's well aware that he isn't 'immortal' but introspection is very much not a strong suit. Billy is a very 'in the moment' thinker. If that moment doesn't include fucking, fighting or the 'telly it doesn't tend to really hold his attention for long.

Right now, Syler has his full attention.

Black eyes move from the outstretched finger to watch as one button after another goes skittering off. The other man's powers are endlessly fascinating to him and he openly admires this particularly creative way he's putting it to use. Naughty and flirty... very nice.

But the question draws him back to serious things and he looks up to actually consider the answer. Other than what they'd already talked about, does he have any? He's done things he's found didn't particularly do much for him. Usually, when he truly doesn't like something it's situational rather than the thing itself.

"I don't like being restrained." He says it with a simple honesty. He had been surprised that Syler was willing to simply accept his word on respecting boundaries. He wouldn't have trusted himself without some sort of solid assurance. Somehow it seems only fair to return the favor.

Yes, he'd been able to break free so far... but Billy knows that if he tried hard enough Syler could probably do it. The difference between the times Syler had tried already were a definite learning curve. And his strength isn't boundless.

(((Hope you don't mind the format change. This is just easier for long tags on a phone. And new years tags are... very slightly inebriated.)))

[complexharmony]

((format change is perfectly fine! ))

There's a delay between one button popping off and the next once Billy answers him. No restraints... physical, or telekinetic? The question is there to ask, he knows, and he might even get an honest answer. After a second of consideration, he decides that ultimately, either/or were off the table.

Something of a scary thought, actually. Since gaining the ability from such a weak, pathetic man, he'd relied on telekinesis as much as he consumed air. It was a reflex, a literal flick of the wrist and he had the world at his fingertips. Was one night (hopefully more) with this man worth it enough to give up his favorite ability?

Yes, he decides almost immediately, yes it damn well was.

"Done." Sylar replies, punctuating the word with one final button destruction. "No restraints from me. Physical or psychic. Now, my other abilities..." Sylar stands, casually tosses off his outer shirt, and walks leisurely over to Billy. As he does, he points, from the top of Billy's belt to where the shirt(s) end, straight up the center. The layers are sliced cleanly through by this invisible scalpel.

"Well. We'll just have to get creative, won't we?"

[playslions]

A bit of rough and tumble is one thing, he can enjoy that. It might even be exciting with someone who can match him, telekinetically or otherwise. But nothing that reminds him being chained, or worse... that bloody chair.

OH hello.. such finely honed control of that power was not only enviable but more than a little titilating. Especially as it tickled, ever so gently brushing the hair trailing the journey from navel to chest. It makes him keenly aware of how much better Syler is at healing. The excitement has him moving closer... all but eliminating the distance between them. Taking the liberty of removing his shirt in the process. Though he does stop just shy enough so Syler has plenty of opportunity to stop and keep them from colliding. Crashing into each other at this point wouldn't exactly be sexy, would it.

"Hmmmn Show me the electricity trick again." He looks him, eyes gleaming with that excitement and hunger. He wants to feel it, taste it just a little. Just enough to know it without risking wakeing Daddy up. Don't want to end things prematurely, not now when it's just getting to the good bits.

[complexharmony]

Just to be fair and even, Sylar removes his undershirt as well and, compared to Billy, he's more skin and muscle than hair. At the request, he grins, holds out his hands to his sides, and summons tiny jolts of electricity. As before, they dance across his fingertips like tiny spiked worms, threading into and through his skin.

"Are you sure you're not related to Dr. Frankenstein?" Sylar asks playfully. He moves one of those hands to the tuft of hair adorning Billy's stomach, unable to resist that furry allure. The electricity is low, crackling like static upon the skin, with a slightly stronger jolt now and then sneaking in.

His other hand he leaves by his side, waving coquettishly, knowing Billy would direct it where he wanted.

@acuriousincident

[complexharmony]

Tea with milk? You mean you don't just heat up water in a microwave and dip the tea bag into the cup right after?

I'll be right over.

( Sylar likes nothing more than to push buttons and tea certainly seemed a sensitive issue here. He hadn't expected today to end, or rather begin as the case might be, with possibly investigating someone else's crime work, but he had to admit, the entire idea intrigued him greatly.

And the address was surprisingly close; walking-distance close, in fact, and while that might've concerned him, he pays it little mind. He simply jogs right over and within fifteen minutes he's there and ringing the buzzer. )

[acuriousincident]

( He hasn't bothered responding to the man's last text - really, apart from implying a completely abhorrent treatment of tea (microwave? teabag in boiling water?? utter nightmare fuel), there's little he can add that won't be a waste of energy. He's on his way. To tell him more about his mind... flashing.

Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would deem this firmly outside his area of expertise and therefor, irrelevant. But on the other hand... Well. If the man's actually, what was it, technically a serial killer, he's interesting more or less by default. Sherlock turns the candle between his fingers. Waits for Mrs. Hudson to let in the stranger by the door (she does, eventually, after a couple of rings) and stays in his chair, the one opposite him empty because John's... not in.

Can't remember where he went, really. )

[complexharmony]

((link to prior tfln which I should've put in the last post but had a derp.))

( Dressed in various grays, Sylar had been slouching against the doorframe, expecting a cop of some sort; when it was the kindly Mrs. Hudson who greeted him, he'd immediately straightened, putting on a respectable face. There were very few types of people Sylar would do that for, but motherly sorts were definitely still one of them. Lots of 'thank you's' and small talk as she walks with him upstairs.

In no small time, he's alone with his unexpected texting partner. Rather than address the candle at all, he looks the other man over with a curious glint in his eye. )

You are hardly what I expected a cop to look like.

[acuriousincident]

(( ooc: if relevant, please just run with whatever you like for any further case details - the details below are loosely based on the veiled lodger. ))

( He can hear the stranger small-talking with Mrs. Hudson all the way up the stairs - makes her day, doesn't it, that someone's taken an active interest in her, dear God. Face mostly impassive, he looks up. Takes in the other man's appearance (clothes; gray, relatively neutral, clever choice, be it conscious or not) and files it away, mentally, along with what he's gathered thus far.

So, he might kill people and boast flashy powers but you certainly wouldn't know by looking at him. He also isn't looking at the candle in question and that's wise, considering the many more important details he could be taking in as he stands there, newly arrived. Careful, he thinks and files this away too, though such new, un-tested data might very well soon be altered or replaced. )

You certainly don't much look like a serial killer but then again - who does? ( He balances the candle on the arm rest, narrowing his eyes a fraction. ) The old lady came to me for advice yesterday because her newest tenant baffles and worries her in equal measures. It's a woman in her late-thirties who takes to wearing Venetian masks indoors and out, collecting and creating hundreds of candles like this - (A nod. ) - only to store them in her room. Two nights ago, apparently, a threatening message appeared on the kitchen floor - burn, it said, and be burned.

( Sherlock looks up at the other man, then gives a light shrug. )

Hardly a murder inquiry but a little odd, perhaps, if we're honest.

@chimeramimicry

[complexharmony]

((from here.))

( How convenient Peter had a giant window right outside his doorway. That had been a pleasant surprise. He'd been prepared to bribe his way inside the building... but, nope, there it was. A simple drop off.

After, he still hung around. Of course he would, there was nothing better to do at this time. Hah. Quite literally. His body of this time was still recovering from a stab wound with an illusionist. No thanks; Peter was more interesting. He was in fact, lounging on the roof above the window, feet dangling over the edge, enjoying a bit of ice cream. Something about this time period gave him a mean craving for cookies 'n cream. Texting was done via telekinesis. )

I can honestly say I haven't seen him since he stabbed me.

You're not in danger, either. Just in case you were wondering.

[chimeramimicry]

[That text annoys him. He presses his lips together, clutching the flip phone, and does another quick up and down glance. Sylar will get to watch him through that window furiously typing away at the number pad.]

Im not afraid of you.

[He might be one of the only people alive that could say that.]

Where are you watching me from?

[complexharmony]

You presume that I am. Put it this way: I can hear how cheap your phone is. That's not an ability, it's just good taste.

( Above the window as he was, he really couldn't see Peter. More importantly, he was out of ice cream. The small single-scoop plastic container and its spoon float down to the window as if puppeteered on a set of strings. )

Throw that away for me, would you? Hate to be a litterbug. Bad for the environment.

[chimeramimicry]

[Oooh, his blood is burning. It’s on his face too, though he swallows the scoff in his throat before it can come out. Being an ‘annoying little
Brother’ for his entire life has taught him how not to show his cards. Peter shoves the phone into his back pocket and storms to the window. It’s been painted over, but a little well applied pressure has him cracking the window in its casement so that he can yank it open and grab the cup.]

You’re the only New Yorker that cares.

[Not true but he’s hot enough to yell it anyway. Peter sticks his head out of the window without fear of falling and looks up and the dangling feet.]