(no subject)
A woman in her thirties, in a house that's an Aladdin's cave of whorls and sprays and statuettes, gleaming confections apparently left to the uncertain mercies of a mad glassblower with hiccups. Glass manipulation. Something even Chandra has been able only to guess at, never to expand on.
Well, until now. In this light, Sylar is practically doing a public service: increasing the sum total of human knowledge by decreasing the sum total of humans.
This one was the bloodiest yet, and the swiftest, perhaps even the most eager, denial of one thrill leading to overhaste in seeking the next; there was a nasty moment when he thought he'd been too unsubtle even for the geneticist's none-too-canny observations, but it passed. It's a little unsatisfying that he did not take the time to really enjoy this acquisition, but he has proven, beyond doubt, that he will still improve himself. Darla Wood has not stopped him in his tracks.
(He wonders how she is. Whether she begrudges him her sudden expulsion from his apartment.)
Chandra, as usual, does not suspect a thing.
Well, until now. In this light, Sylar is practically doing a public service: increasing the sum total of human knowledge by decreasing the sum total of humans.
This one was the bloodiest yet, and the swiftest, perhaps even the most eager, denial of one thrill leading to overhaste in seeking the next; there was a nasty moment when he thought he'd been too unsubtle even for the geneticist's none-too-canny observations, but it passed. It's a little unsatisfying that he did not take the time to really enjoy this acquisition, but he has proven, beyond doubt, that he will still improve himself. Darla Wood has not stopped him in his tracks.
(He wonders how she is. Whether she begrudges him her sudden expulsion from his apartment.)
Chandra, as usual, does not suspect a thing.