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[complexharmony]

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[heavymetalgears]

Tch. ( Hank thinks about how his description brought Gabriel to reflect on it like a hook-up. He got it, and he didn't necessarily disagree with that assessment either. He was, in a way, hooking up with these people to extract some intimate knowledge. To take whatever secrets they had to share, find out whatever they may be hiding. The exchange was more for his benefit, less for whoever he was meeting.

What would be more impressive to Gabriel? Telling him what he was or saying something false? Hank didn't imagine anyone was too impressed by him as of late. Was it wrong to want to feel that again? From a stranger? )

Lieutenant.

( He disliked the idea of talking about himself though, so he tried to turn the questions around. )

What about you, what's your story here?

[complexharmony]

( To his credit, Gabriel does appear impressed. He always wanted to be a cop, had even considered trying it out for a few years, but ultimately decided against it. Too much risk involved. The government had begun its plans for people like him nearly two decades ago. Round them all up, put them in camps. Mark them as terrorists and no questions were asked. He'd even worked with them for a while but splintered off.

And now here he was. Eating a kid's meal.

He finishes the last couple bites of his pasta, then munches thoughtfully on the nuggets. Flaky, crispy, microwaved. )

Oh, I'm hardly as interesting as you. You've made a name for yourself. Accredited, accolades, reputation. I'm currently drifting. Trying to find my place in the world. I'm sure it's a story as old as time.

( It was an easy mold to fit into. Early thirties, fresh from college, or divorce, or on the flipside, newly married. The stories and lies became easy. )

[heavymetalgears]

( Hank nods his head, the answer was vague and intentionally unspecific. There was an idea behind Gabriel's description of himself, but nothing concrete. The next thought was how he described Hank's achievements, which made him wonder if Gabriel had heard about him before. The only thing he managed was a bust some years ago, probably when this guy was still just a kid.

No, Hank doesn't think Gabriel's heard of him but considered what must be a prerequisite of becoming a lieutenant that a cop had to be someone to move into that position.

Gabriel described himself as drifting, a piece from earth having fallen off the bank and into the stream, dipping into the cold water, splashing against the ridges, and washing ashore.

Detroit was an odd place to wash up on; most of what ends up in the water here tends to drift out of the city. Was this just a place he'd caught onto before the tide takes him back out into the rapid waters? Or will he be entangled with whatever else is lost and forgotten on the banks of Detroit's rivers? )

It is. Sometimes people don't get to that answer.

[complexharmony]

No, they don't. Some remain insignificant their entire lives. Collect snow globes, insist on staying in the same place forever. Never moving, always just... Trapped.

( His eyes softened with the memory. "You are not my Gabriel. You are damned!" The words haunt him, his mother's--no, not his mother's, just the woman who adopted him in a diner. Paid for him like buying a new car. It didn't make her death any easier to bear. She hadn't deserved that. There's no wetness to his eyes, no tears to shed anymore. He shifts in his seat, straightens, refocuses his mind. Who to pick on? The chef's gamblings weren't doing so hot. Those dark brows were furrowed, sweat pooling in his dreadlocks. Gabriel only hoped he would not drip anything onto the food he served, but then, doubted the man cared. )

Take the people in this shop. Perfect example. You've seen what I've seen, right? No one becomes a cop without that ability to observe. ( Gabriel nods his head towards the hostess, indicates with his eyes the chef, the other patrons. ) Tell me what you see. Where do you think their lives are headed?

[heavymetalgears]

Hm. ( Just like driftwood, Hank thinks. It started out trapped, broke away from its roots, and peaced the fuck out downstream. He also did a mental check on if he owned any fucking snow globes. What a fucking tourist trap that was. ) Eh? ( He's redirected with Gabriel's encouragement to observe the surrounding environment. His lips part, and he looks around, wondering what the hell he was supposed to "see." No one becomes a cop without that ability to observe. He looks back to Gabriel, and his eyes focus on the dark edges of the young man's jawline. A five o'clock shadow is coming in strong. His eyes then trail off of his companion to those around them, finding the hostess with Gabriel's guiding eyes toward her. )

You want me to make up a story about who I see here and where they're going?

( No, Gabriel wants him to observe these people as if they're books. He was right, though. Part of being a good cop was being suspicious of everyone - well, Hank would say so. People watching became second nature to Hank. He picked up on little things here and there and stored bits of information for later, but he wasn't a fucking profiler. He was simply street smart. )

Okay. ( He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. He brings a napkin to his lips and pats at them before he exchanges the cloth for his beer bottle to moisten his palate. He sets the bottle down with a soft thud to the tablecloth and looks to Gabriel as he answers. The hostess didn't have a name tag. High-end restaurants like this didn't bother with such minuscule details. They sold the latest trends in meals, wine, and cakes. What was important was the patron would go home dreaming about the Skillet Cod with Lemon and Capers and not about Bob, Kate, Jen, or Shelly. So, without a name, Hank gives her one - not that it would be close to what it was, but for the sake of this weird little game(?) to remain inconspicuous, he makes one up: )

Rachel, too thin, gray, and the foundation she is wearing is cheap. She can't afford name brands because she has a habit to keep the itch away. ( The comment about her foundation is to indicate that Hank noticed the scars and scabs that freckled her face beneath that makeup. It wasn't acne or blemishes. It was the itch, the meth bug that also scattered bites across her fingers and hands. ) She's going to be fired and homeless, all her family has cut ties, and all her friends only stick around long enough to get high.

She'll be in and out of treatment, find some boyfriends, return to drugs, and eventually be picked up by law enforcement and entered into mandatory residential recovery houses to stave off criminal charges.

I'm not interested in judging if her life is significant, but it tends to work out that most people with the problem grew up feeling that way. I've seen my share of people coming in and out of the department, I know the look.

( He didn't feel good about this assessment, in fact, he felt shitty about making that judgment - telling that "story" about Rachel. Even if it were true, what business was it of his? ) Is that what you wanted me to say?

[complexharmony]

( Gabriel watches Hank throughout, studying him as much as the older man studied the environment. He could practically see the cobwebs clearing out darkened corners, settled dust clearing off tools that might've gone a bit rusty. He follows the older man's gaze, beginning to see the reality as he illustrated.

He was tempted to paint the future for himself, to see just how accurate Hank's story would be. This he resists as he realizes, partway through Hank's audio book version of 'This Is Your Life', that he doesn't want to know. The reality proclaimed is enough. What are the chances he'd run into "Rachel" again after tonight? Slim to none, if he were the betting sort.

After Hank's story concludes, Sylar actually grins. He won't applaud him, as that'd draw in too much attention, but he does incline his head forward in a slight bow. )

More than what I wanted, Lieutenant. You were flawless. But you saw exactly what I needed you to see. These people have no escape. They're like mice running on a wheel. They may stop to grab a drink- ( His gaze shifts, just for a half-second, towards the collection of bottles on Hank's side of the table. ) -or some other vice, but ultimately? They run their routines like good little drones, never thinking for themselves or breaking free.

( He tosses the final piece of nugget into the air and catches it with a snap of his sharp white teeth. With another shift gesture, he retrieves a clicky pen from his pocket. )

However, there are some routines we must all abide by, isn't there? Certain... natural urges for our own survival.

( Sylar finishes writing, ducks his head down, and blows on the thin napkin so it sails over next to Hank's own napkin. On it would be the address of his motel and room number. )

Just in case the universe doesn't see fit for our phones to mis-align once again, that's where I'm staying for the next week. Just in case you want to talk or break out from your own routine, hm?

( The words are innocent enough, but in his dark eyes, there's something of a challenge within. He licks at a few stray crumbs from his index finger and thumb. )

[heavymetalgears]

( Hank's eyes narrow to Gabriel's mouth as the corners push into a soft smile. It's an indication that he was pleased, which words following that smirk confirm Hank's perception of Gabriel's body language. Gabriel's message didn't necessarily tumble from his lips with minced words. Derogatory adjectives such as mice and drones gave Hank a clear understanding that Gabriel did not think much of his fellow humanity.

Hank contemplates the blind date. Was it also important for Gabriel to break away from routine and give in to impulsive behaviors and divine interventions? Did Gabriel think he was proving to himself he was not a drone by meeting Hank tonight? Did Hank prove he wasn't a drone either? His light blue eyes lower to the napkin that glides above the table cloth and lands onto his own used napkin. He sees the writing on it for what it was, rather than reading it. After, he looks up to Gabriel to see an ignited expression on his face. Like he was watching the ball soar through the air, about ready to nestle into the net. )

Alright. Fuck routines.