[Whack] December - 050. Silent Night. [For heroslayer]
The firefighters had done their work, but they had yet to clear the building for anyone else to go in, not even the coroners. It was generally agreed that there were no survivors, though several bodies had been found. Many had been pulled free, but it was too unstable, they said, to risk sending anyone in, just yet. They had teams, looking, of course, but no one even truly knew what the building had been for, and Angela Petrelli had not been very forthcoming about who might or might not be in there. They were frustrated. They would go back in when the morning came.
A slip of a girl listened, and watched, keeping to the shadows. She'd parked nearly a mile away, walked in on foot, and she didn't draw attention to herself now. There were plenty of other onlookers, after all. The words were informative, but more than that, she watched for what wasn't said, watched the woman with the dark hair, and the blond girl and the man with the horn-rimmed glasses. Curious. They knew things, things she'd been searching for, wanting to know, secrets she'd suspected the building might hold the answers to, but she'd gotten here too late, it seemed, for things like files and records.
But not for walls and floors and bricks and mortars and the secrets seeped in the ground like blood. She could still read those, if she concentrated hard enough, pull them out of the past, and at least get a sense of it. Maybe find some answers she needed that way.
You could do that in a week, just as well, her more cautious voice told her. The past isn't going anywhere.
But other things might, she thought, watching the woman, uncomfortably. So many shadows, so many secrets, so much loss and pain and greed and twisted corners all wrapping around themselves inside of her. There were things in there she wanted the fire to have rid her of, but it might not have, and she'd see they were gone, and if she did, then Melissa might not have another chance. So she waited until the firemen cleared out and the night was quiet again, then moved across the grass that had once been a lawn, corporate, sure, but not a trampled sodden mess of tangled mud. Even here, things seemed to scream at her, ghosts rising up to grab at her legs and try and pull her into their story. The building, what was left of it, was near dripping with blood, and it made her ill to think of crossing the threshold, but she forced herself across the charred ruin, glancing upward at a creak, worriedly hoping nothing would crash down on her.
"Where do I need to go?" she whispered, as much to the ghosts who never really answered back, just echoes of the past she saw who didn't see her, as to herself, her own intuition. There was a tug inside, though, as if an answer, and she brushed her fingers over blackened walls, then pulled back as if burned, and moved slowly down the hall, step by lingering step until she came to a room with no roof anymore, and a body inside it that had not been removed, perhaps just waiting for the coroner to come, because clearly nothing could be done for the charred remains.
Her stomach turned at what had once been a person, and she almost stepped back, out, horrified, before the screams in the room caught her. Gods, but there were so many of them. This was the room, then, full of secrets and lies. This was one she needed, and she whimpered, slightly, the only sound over the silent clamor of images demanding she focus on one or the other. The most recent, though, stuck. The girl outside, the blond one, plunging glass into a man's head as he fell, and the horror struck look on the other woman's face, mingling with relief. Her eyes moved to the body again, and she cautiously approached him.
Sure enough, there was glass there, blackened and broken, protruding from his skull. She knew to leave it there. Fingerprints would be gone, and there was nothing she could say to prove it was the girl, no way to help the victim of her crime, but there should at least be evidence OF a crime. She knew that. Journalism 101--you don't disturb evidence. She shouldn't even be here, now that she knew it was a crime scene. But something beyond her compelled her. Why there, why his brain, why that spot, why without a chance to even defend himself? It wasn't right.
Her fingers curled around the piece of glass, even as a voice in her head screamed to ask what she was doing, and she pulled, hard, tugging it free.
When he started to heal, she screamed.
[ooc: Sylar is heroslayer. Angela, Claire and Bennet are all just canon/NPC at this point and not meant to reflect upon any person's muse.]
A slip of a girl listened, and watched, keeping to the shadows. She'd parked nearly a mile away, walked in on foot, and she didn't draw attention to herself now. There were plenty of other onlookers, after all. The words were informative, but more than that, she watched for what wasn't said, watched the woman with the dark hair, and the blond girl and the man with the horn-rimmed glasses. Curious. They knew things, things she'd been searching for, wanting to know, secrets she'd suspected the building might hold the answers to, but she'd gotten here too late, it seemed, for things like files and records.
But not for walls and floors and bricks and mortars and the secrets seeped in the ground like blood. She could still read those, if she concentrated hard enough, pull them out of the past, and at least get a sense of it. Maybe find some answers she needed that way.
You could do that in a week, just as well, her more cautious voice told her. The past isn't going anywhere.
But other things might, she thought, watching the woman, uncomfortably. So many shadows, so many secrets, so much loss and pain and greed and twisted corners all wrapping around themselves inside of her. There were things in there she wanted the fire to have rid her of, but it might not have, and she'd see they were gone, and if she did, then Melissa might not have another chance. So she waited until the firemen cleared out and the night was quiet again, then moved across the grass that had once been a lawn, corporate, sure, but not a trampled sodden mess of tangled mud. Even here, things seemed to scream at her, ghosts rising up to grab at her legs and try and pull her into their story. The building, what was left of it, was near dripping with blood, and it made her ill to think of crossing the threshold, but she forced herself across the charred ruin, glancing upward at a creak, worriedly hoping nothing would crash down on her.
"Where do I need to go?" she whispered, as much to the ghosts who never really answered back, just echoes of the past she saw who didn't see her, as to herself, her own intuition. There was a tug inside, though, as if an answer, and she brushed her fingers over blackened walls, then pulled back as if burned, and moved slowly down the hall, step by lingering step until she came to a room with no roof anymore, and a body inside it that had not been removed, perhaps just waiting for the coroner to come, because clearly nothing could be done for the charred remains.
Her stomach turned at what had once been a person, and she almost stepped back, out, horrified, before the screams in the room caught her. Gods, but there were so many of them. This was the room, then, full of secrets and lies. This was one she needed, and she whimpered, slightly, the only sound over the silent clamor of images demanding she focus on one or the other. The most recent, though, stuck. The girl outside, the blond one, plunging glass into a man's head as he fell, and the horror struck look on the other woman's face, mingling with relief. Her eyes moved to the body again, and she cautiously approached him.
Sure enough, there was glass there, blackened and broken, protruding from his skull. She knew to leave it there. Fingerprints would be gone, and there was nothing she could say to prove it was the girl, no way to help the victim of her crime, but there should at least be evidence OF a crime. She knew that. Journalism 101--you don't disturb evidence. She shouldn't even be here, now that she knew it was a crime scene. But something beyond her compelled her. Why there, why his brain, why that spot, why without a chance to even defend himself? It wasn't right.
Her fingers curled around the piece of glass, even as a voice in her head screamed to ask what she was doing, and she pulled, hard, tugging it free.
When he started to heal, she screamed.
[ooc: Sylar is heroslayer. Angela, Claire and Bennet are all just canon/NPC at this point and not meant to reflect upon any person's muse.]