All the world's a stage
Who: Sylar [fixesclocks] and the people who are out for his blood
When: Night of the 28th
Where: Streets of Siren's Port
Summary: Strangely enough psychopaths who murder Batman upset a lot of people. Who'd have funk it.
Warnings: Violence, discussion? of character death, blood/gore, swearing etc. Edited if necessary.
[ The night was crisp and sharp, all the angles of the city wet from the rain that had fallen earlier that day. A brisk wind tore through the wind tunnels that the streets made, and even the monsters cowered from the roar it made through empty and echoing tunnels. The streets were more or less deserted, but Sylar was out tonight because he had painted himself such, standing before this very (plain) building, in fact. It wasn't much to look at, but it was a definitive landmark; something that he could identify.
Perhaps this painting linked through to the one of Batman, the painting of himself behind bars; it was impossible to tell. Perhaps tonight he would reign triumphant over the man with the mask that he had painted just the other day.
It was predestination at its finest, and he should run. He should turn and walk away and go somewhere very different, but the wheels were already in motion, they had been since he'd come here, taking his place at the foot of this building. They were coming, and the City was egging them on.
He could hear her voice in his blood, like a frail telepathy; not a warning, but a triumphant hum, like the feeling you got as you watched you horse pull ahead of the others in a race, or approached the end of a project, knowing that there were just a few more pieces to place before a watch would tick in perfect time again.
They were coming. ]
When: Night of the 28th
Where: Streets of Siren's Port
Summary: Strangely enough psychopaths who murder Batman upset a lot of people. Who'd have funk it.
Warnings: Violence, discussion? of character death, blood/gore, swearing etc. Edited if necessary.
[ The night was crisp and sharp, all the angles of the city wet from the rain that had fallen earlier that day. A brisk wind tore through the wind tunnels that the streets made, and even the monsters cowered from the roar it made through empty and echoing tunnels. The streets were more or less deserted, but Sylar was out tonight because he had painted himself such, standing before this very (plain) building, in fact. It wasn't much to look at, but it was a definitive landmark; something that he could identify.
Perhaps this painting linked through to the one of Batman, the painting of himself behind bars; it was impossible to tell. Perhaps tonight he would reign triumphant over the man with the mask that he had painted just the other day.
It was predestination at its finest, and he should run. He should turn and walk away and go somewhere very different, but the wheels were already in motion, they had been since he'd come here, taking his place at the foot of this building. They were coming, and the City was egging them on.
He could hear her voice in his blood, like a frail telepathy; not a warning, but a triumphant hum, like the feeling you got as you watched you horse pull ahead of the others in a race, or approached the end of a project, knowing that there were just a few more pieces to place before a watch would tick in perfect time again.
They were coming. ]