The man before him stands tall, almost ridiculously Hulk-type tall, and he's got the rippling muscles to match. The leather outfit with the wrestler's design is a little different, as is the blueviolet butterfly mask on his face, but, uh... go with it. He does.
There's a pretty girl - maybe fourteen or fifteen - bent over her sketchbook.
She glances up when Sylar comes in, and frowns slightly, looking down at her sketchpad, and then back at him. And then back to her sketchpad, turning a page, and drawing furiously with red and black pastel crayons.
He wipes his hands on the shirt inside his jacket and then stands up to his full height before he walks over to her. Age has never been a problem with him, and he's just about to lift his finger to start cutting ... when he remembers they are in a public place and stops, shoving his hand into his pocket.
She looks up at him, and gives him a sad, knowing smile.
"I don't think that would do you much good," she says. Her fingers are still moving, adding another dash of red, and the reaching for a couple shades of grey.
"Besides," she adds softly. "You really don't want what I have."
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The man before him stands tall, almost ridiculously Hulk-type tall, and he's got the rippling muscles to match. The leather outfit with the wrestler's design is a little different, as is the blueviolet butterfly mask on his face, but, uh... go with it. He does.
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He does, however, turn lazily to study the man while he wipes his hands on the inside of his jacket.
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He tilts his head at 'Grande Papillion' and swallows thickly.
"No," he states calmly, removing his hands from his jacket, "Just a papercut."
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She glances up when Sylar comes in, and frowns slightly, looking down at her sketchpad, and then back at him. And then back to her sketchpad, turning a page, and drawing furiously with red and black pastel crayons.
She has no heartbeat.
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He wipes his hands on the shirt inside his jacket and then stands up to his full height before he walks over to her. Age has never been a problem with him, and he's just about to lift his finger to start cutting ... when he remembers they are in a public place and stops, shoving his hand into his pocket.
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"I don't think that would do you much good," she says. Her fingers are still moving, adding another dash of red, and the reaching for a couple shades of grey.
"Besides," she adds softly. "You really don't want what I have."
More red.
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He's focusing on her, wanting to know exactly how she works. It's just the surface he can get without cutting ... in.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
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All that blood--
Oh no.
"Sylar."
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He glances up from his spot and wipes his hands on his shirt before looking to the man.
"If it isn't Peter Petrelli."
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Sylar. This is very bad.
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Were it anyone else ... he would say no. But his mother ...
"For good reason, at least." She'd helped him realize what he could do. Her death was for a reason.
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