it's only a game

[truemask]

[Who:] Lucius Malfoy, Sylar
[What:] A discussion on the state of play takes place.
[When:] Early Week 6
[Where:] Stadium; East Gallery
[Warnings:] Nada, will update as needed.

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[truemask]

There is little comical about much, in this place, although Lucius does find irony.

Daily.

The journey of tea mug to his mouth is paused at the sound of approach, lowered again, turning to see who's decided to join him for the view - that it isn't someone he recognises, not Johann or Ana, not Tseng or Snape, not even Granger, startles him imperceptibly. But there is something recognisably familiar about it as well - it does, in fact, remind him of himself when he'd first approached Ana Lewis on the day of his own arrival, drawn to her because she was both there and wielding authority and, possibly, answers. He had held the same defensive and silent coyote-wired approach as this young man, and it was a little disheartening to know that he was playing out Ana's role

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"My name is Lucius Malfoy."

Rather than bid Sylar to move closer, Lucius has no issue with closing up a little distance himself - one must assume a degree of territory, and he does so so as best to note the mark he expects to be there. "Mr. Malfoy will do, if you please." If Lucius sees him as a threat, it's more marked in that he is not being outright antagonistic, only allowing for chilly reserve and demand. "And as for what I'm supposed to be, I've been assigned Third-in-Command of the illustrious Militant army of Zone Fifteen."

His tone is bone dry. "I'm sure the good doctor already offered you apology, so you'll forgive me if I refrain from repetition. You'll have questions, I suspect."

[truemask]

Lucius tips his attention downwards as Sylar settles, remaining standing himself with hands placed comfortably, one atop cane, the other atop hand in turn. "A good question, and I'm afraid my answer will only be so satisfying; the kind of army that has little other choice. But as you can see, it permits us room. Privacy. Storage. Somewhere in the city would be our enemy, and I doubt they have anything better. Perhaps even worse.

"They're known as the Civilians." He is more bothered by Sylar's flippancy than Sylar is of Lucius' imperiousness, probably, but Lucius conceals it well save for a single raise of an eyebrow. Americans.

Even worse. Muggle Americans.

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Oh, is that what the field's for? Lucius had wondered.

Lucius' patience makes a decision. It decides to keep, for the time being, as he meanders the necessary steps so as best to sit down nearby, allowing one empty seat as distance between them. His hands automatically smooth down clothing that doesn't need to be tidied before returning to their place upon the cane.

"I believe the plan is, actually, to annihilate them."

[truemask]

And Lucius isn't entirely unbothered by this question, but doesn't mind displaying this in his considering hesitation, the twitched corner of his mouth and middle-distance squint out the windows. It's a good question, one they all ask until it becomes a monotonous litany, losing its meaning. "If you speak of the greater purpose, then I'm afraid I can't help you. You may wish to ask the device that brought you here. It won't give you very detailed answers, as far as I can tell, but it seems honest enough. If you would like, I can show you how.

"But as for the individual, I believe the idea is that we want to return to our lives. Thus far, the only way we've been presented is through victory. It will take getting used to. I suggest you see to it that you do, Sylar, as soon as you can."

[truemask]

Sylar will hear no immediate protest from Lucius. No, the wizard listens. Merlin knows that his participation in the building the Second War was cloak-and-dagger enough and his disdain of the foot soldiers he had to work with readily apparent when he was finally on the battlefield himself. An eyebrow raise follows this initial proclamation-- again, he had said-- and sharper consideration for the next.

"Your abilities," he repeats. No particular note of mockery, but some reserve. "Well, if wars were won based only on who has the bigger stick to wield, then matters would generally be settled peaceably upon measurement. You've magic at your disposal?"

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Disarming isn't taken well, certainly not immediately -- Lucius' hand chases after it to grip only air in a jerked step forward, pale eyes going glacial bright in indignant surprise, mouth making a line. It's a heavy item, but not so much to indicate that it's made of anything other than wood, with exception to its silver hilt. Rude, is Lucius' first thought.

Wandless magic being the other, which has him recalibrating how in the world he should be dealing with this man.

He forces himself to retract his hand, and lift his gaze from his wand gripped in the other man's hands, concealed though it may be, meaningless to those who don't even believe in it, despite wielding magic so easily. "Sabotage, espionage and subterfuge are all valid applications of power during times of war. No doubt you'll find your niche."

[truemask]

Lucius' hands go up to either take the cane or stop it from hitting him - likely the latter, seeing as his fingers don't close around the item right away when it instead does not do this and hovers in the air before him. He does, after a second, take it - without particular reserve. Obviously, he knows something of powers, even if Sylar's comes from the brain and his comes from a stick.

"I've no doubt our commander will respect your wishes," he states, after a moment, mostly to compose himself. No, there's no response to mention of Pringles. "You'll find yourself reporting to her or Mr. Schmidt, if those are your preferences. But know that we all will find ourselves fighting, in the end."

He rests the end of his cane back down against the floor, and lifts his chin. "It's quite unavoidable.