For Eden AND Sylar

[downsidedarling]

Eden's house is larger than Sylar's.

(She had Mohinder, after all. He mourned.)

On the whole this is not much of a recommendation, but being Eight-Hour's does wonders for your furnishing capabilities, and she's had every opportunity to make it habitable.

Comments

[carefulwishes]

Eden spent all day at home. Then she figured Sylar would be less likely to attack if she were in a crowded place - or if he did, she could at least call people to help her. So she's been visiting public places as often as she could. She spoke to a certain person and then another and got herself a gun.

Eden went to the bar earlier today. (Old habits don't die when the body does.) She worked off her buzz in the library, staring at Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart. (Old habits don't die.) She thought about how far she's sliding back into who she was - drinking, ignoring people, seeing them only for what she can get from them. She should stop it. She should make more friends. But it's so much energy. She barely has enough energy to feel fear and worry.

With a nod to the librarian, she left, intending to read Things Fall Apart at home. A young Indian man stopped her and gave her an amber bracelet - Eden is used to people stopping her. She's Eights' gal. (The booze didn't dull missing Mohinder. She's a selfish bitch for wanting him here

[the_brain_man]

Sylar’s had plenty of practice at lurking. He’s lurked in broad daylight, in the corner of a diner, hidden behind tea and a baseball cap. He’s lurked at night, in the long shadows of a school locker-room, and even in the presence of someone who could hear every excited beat of his heart. He was lurking in the wood, when the woman now stepping into the room captured him with her voice-

But this time, he’s in control.

Pale patches in a corner might have been taken for mere patterns of light before they focus and, without really changing, become a man’s face. His expression could be called impassive, if his eyes weren’t dark and cold and hard as flint.

Two curled fingers translate to a measured pressure on the throat, making speech impossible.

One corner of Sylar’s mouth flickers upwards, just slightly.

“Hello, Sarah.”

[carefulwishes]

Her eyes go wide, mouth (suddenly dry) opening automatically, ready to form 'Don't'--

She can't speak. Like before. Her throat quivers, strains as she tries, harsh puffs of air but little else. The rest of her body is hardly idle. Muscles tense, (shaking) hands become fists (uselessly) as she begins to step back towards the door.

Though the rest of her body is in motion, Sylar might detect a twitch of her cheek muscle at the name he gives her.

(Should've asked Amber Bracelet to come in. He could have stopped this. She could have ordered him to protect her. Fuck, why doesn't she think why doesn't she think why doesn't she think)

[downsidedarling]

Somewhere rather farther away than anyone except Sylar would like, Eights gets home and receives an e-mail.

"FUCK!"

Cursing Sylar, herself, the librarian's insufficient pain threshold, and anything else she can think of, Eight-Hour clatters down four flights of stairs to her garage, where she hops on a motorcycle. It's barely possible she'll get there in time. (She has no idea what she'll do when she does. It's not important, really. She'll think of something.)