(no subject)
Who: Sylar, and anyone who comes along.
What: A new arrival to the city.
Where: Near the staircase.
When: Wednesday night.
Rating: PG, for blood and flashback violence?
Open: Like an open thing. Come on in. :)
All of his hard work, all of his effort- was it just to die in the end? He was going to have saved everyone- or tried, anyway. He was going to be the hero. He was even going to be President. It would have been perfect.
But no, Peter and that horrible little japanese man had to ruin it. He supposed it wasn't Peter's fault- no one wants to explode. If his brother, that other Petrelli, hadn't shown up, they'd have been home free. It was incredibly frustrating. He'd done everything he was supposed to- what use was precognition if it wasn't right all the time, anyway?
Sylar wasn't sure what had happened during the fight at Kirby Plaza, not really. He'd passed out during the battle. He remembered vaguely that Peter didn't explode on the ground, remembered blurrily that the man had been talking with Petrelli, the on in the ads. It had only clicked then that they were brothers. After he'd been stabbed through the chest, he remembered realizing that...and the feeling of sliding himself along the ground, slick with his own blood.
He'd lost a lot of that blood already by the time he'd awakened on the stairs. It was definitely easier to go down than up. He was able to use the telekinesis to keep his wound closed, mostly- amost like psychic stitches. But that took a great deal of concentration and effort from him, and he already felt really weak. He'd still need to find a real doctor soon- a difficult task considering how he's seen nothing but stairs and more st-
Sylar smiled as he finally saw the ground coming up to meet him. Another door, and that was just fine- he opened it onto...was that New York? No...no, it was larger, possibly much larger, and he wondered how that was possible. It smelled and sounded different. Everything about this place, from the atmosphere to the people, seemed promising. Where the hell was he?
He eventually decided that it didn't matter. He'd find what he needed here, he knew it. He joined the crowd, hoping that someone would notice the condition he's in. Maybe a good samaritan would find him some help.
It didn't take long before he found a bench that looked inviting enough. Focusing on walking and holding his injury in was getting to be rather tiresome.
What: A new arrival to the city.
Where: Near the staircase.
When: Wednesday night.
Rating: PG, for blood and flashback violence?
Open: Like an open thing. Come on in. :)
All of his hard work, all of his effort- was it just to die in the end? He was going to have saved everyone- or tried, anyway. He was going to be the hero. He was even going to be President. It would have been perfect.
But no, Peter and that horrible little japanese man had to ruin it. He supposed it wasn't Peter's fault- no one wants to explode. If his brother, that other Petrelli, hadn't shown up, they'd have been home free. It was incredibly frustrating. He'd done everything he was supposed to- what use was precognition if it wasn't right all the time, anyway?
Sylar wasn't sure what had happened during the fight at Kirby Plaza, not really. He'd passed out during the battle. He remembered vaguely that Peter didn't explode on the ground, remembered blurrily that the man had been talking with Petrelli, the on in the ads. It had only clicked then that they were brothers. After he'd been stabbed through the chest, he remembered realizing that...and the feeling of sliding himself along the ground, slick with his own blood.
He'd lost a lot of that blood already by the time he'd awakened on the stairs. It was definitely easier to go down than up. He was able to use the telekinesis to keep his wound closed, mostly- amost like psychic stitches. But that took a great deal of concentration and effort from him, and he already felt really weak. He'd still need to find a real doctor soon- a difficult task considering how he's seen nothing but stairs and more st-
Sylar smiled as he finally saw the ground coming up to meet him. Another door, and that was just fine- he opened it onto...was that New York? No...no, it was larger, possibly much larger, and he wondered how that was possible. It smelled and sounded different. Everything about this place, from the atmosphere to the people, seemed promising. Where the hell was he?
He eventually decided that it didn't matter. He'd find what he needed here, he knew it. He joined the crowd, hoping that someone would notice the condition he's in. Maybe a good samaritan would find him some help.
It didn't take long before he found a bench that looked inviting enough. Focusing on walking and holding his injury in was getting to be rather tiresome.