Sylar watches the news story, eyes fixed on the television, hand flat on the bar in front of him.
A patron, beside him, lets out a burp. “What is this?” he slurs, drunkenly. “Some kinda science fiction movie? Hey! Can someone put on the Red Sox, please?”
“Shut up,” says the bartender, snapping her rag at him. “It’s the news, dumbass.”
“
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