The warden said: Hey buddy, don't you be no square

[fixesclocks]

Who: Sylar [fixesclocks] and anyone who wishes to visit him
When: Any time after the 2nd of November until stated otherwise.
Where: Jail~
Summary: Sylar is the calmest prisoner ever. Patience is a virtue, after all. If you'd like to visit him for whatever reason, do so here. Police officers, reporters, psychiatrists, lawyers, demons and victims, I think I made

Comments

[askedtobe]

[ Peter, truthfully, doesn't quite understand why he so badly felt the need to come. Maybe it was only to see Sylar in jail, to see what the other man looked like behind bars. Cuffed to his chair, immobilized, and seemingly without his abilities.

And while there's something immeasurably uncomfortable about this, Peter's trying to pretend that that isn't the case. That he doesn't feel like he should be being treated the same exact way. Locked up, abilities voided; a criminal. But he's not putting words to those thoughts, instead keeping himself at a distance with his own chair scooted a few inches further back.

Narrowing his vision, he gives Sylar an accusing stare that's just beginning to turn curious. ] So it really does work.

[fixesclocks]

[ Sylar shifts backward, sitting up just a little straighter, and with the slightest shake of his hand indicates the cuffs. ]

I can't feel any of my powers. It's just like it was before--the unbearable emptiness of it all.

[ He raises both hands in a slight shrug, then places them both on the table's edge - it's as far as the cuffs reach - and he leans over them, leans toward Peter. ]

I was hoping you'd come. You're the only one that understands. I can't...

[ There's a flicker of pain in his eyes, but it's gone after a moment as Sylar snaps his eyes away. He swallows, lips parting; it's restrained fear, and perilous anxiety, but it's crushed as soon as it reaches the surface, afraid of Peter seeing. His mind, on the other hand, is less quiet.

Dontleavedontleavedontleavedont-- ]

[askedtobe]

[ This wasn't exactly the reaction Peter was expecting. Maybe it would have made more sense to him if Sylar was planning on spending the entire time in a rage instead of looking, somehow, terrified -- Peter didn't know. But either way, it made all of this infinitely more uncomfortable, and Peter swallowed thickly, just staring for a few more seconds.

Sylar's racing mind wasn't helping matters and made him want to leave while simultaneously rooting him to his own chair.

But the part of all of this that still got to Peter the most was he was as much to blame for Robin's death as Sylar was, and yet there they were, on opposite sides. ]

Can't what? Get out? That's kind of the point. [ He tips his head slightly, giving Sylar a momentarily hard, appraising look. Before even that fades slightly and Peter's left with an awful taste in his mouth and an angry expression he's trying too hard to keep up. ]

And what if I do understand.

[fixesclocks]

[ When he looks back up, he knows by Peter's expression that he's heard, and again panic flickers across his expression. His hands begin to grip the edge of the table tighter, nails digging into the wood, gouging holes in the veneer. ]

I can't stay here.

[ And that's desperation, now, looking up again, meeting those hard eyes even as the fierceness begins to fade in them. He knows Peter understands. ]

But you can help me escape, can't you?

[ He knows Peter can't; that he won't, but he presses on, a little more urgently: ]

I don't want to just disappear, Peter.

[controllingluck]

[Monday, November 14th (if that's alright

[fixesclocks]

[ Absolutely!

Two weeks into his incarceration, and Sylar was growing used to being gawked at, to having people stand in doorways or opposite him and just stare, trying to pick him apart. People that he knew were from SERO and AGI had passed through in the past few days, though they hadn't spoken to him, and as with everyone else, Sylar had simply stared back; black bottomless pits of eyes burning into their souls until they backed back out the way they had come and left him be.

His eyes were on the table this time, when someone entered, and he didn't look up until he heard the small voice. The first voice he'd heard after arriving here was unmistakeable--memorable, in fact. He found himself studying her in turn, letting the silence linger, and then he patted the table with his unchained hand. ]

I deserve it, don't I? Don't be afraid. Please, sit down.

[controllingluck]

[She just watched for a moment longer with out saying anything. Why was she here. What the heck was she doing? Her eyes didn't leave his face as she moved, carefully taking a seat and placing her hands into her lap, back straight and head slightly tipped, studying him. Was he really trapped here now?]

I'm not afraid. [was... not what she intended to say, but it was spoken anyhow. She wasn't really scared... she... wasn't really sure why she was there was all.]

Do you think you deserve it? [There, that was what she had meant to say.]

[fixesclocks]

[ Sylar didn't move. His eyes strayed back down again, and he watched his own hands as he began to draw invisible swirly patterns on the tabletop. He stopped abruptly, scratching her nails in the wood, and that was the first moment - some two minutes after she'd asked her question - that he seemed to acknowledge having been asked it at all. ]

I used to live in New York. They call it 'The City That Never Sleeps'; and it's true, you never sleep. Even if you can sleep through the noise of the city, and the smell, there were other reasons to stay awake. I never believed in heroes.

[ Growing up in the city of broken dreams... Well, it had come with advantages too. ]

Do I deserve it? Yes. I killed people, didn't I? I killed you. Everything is quiet in my head--do you know how long it's been? I'm almost grateful. Almost.

I feel like something's been cut out of me. Ironic, isn't it? Like a phantom limb, I keep reaching for it expecting it to be there, and it hurts.

the 15th, let's say

[ebony_mask]

[Until an informative conversation with Re-l, Black Mask had assumed Batman's killer had been killed or vanished or returned home or God knows what--he'd been busy, ok? But upon discovering Sylar was imprisoned, well...he had to indulge his curiosity and meet the man who'd brought down the Bat.

No matter how much it annoyed him it hadn't been a Gothamite.

Or even himself.

He's concocted a new disguise for this visit, complete with a dark mustache and beard, glasses, and a tweed walking cap; today he's Robert Sprang, an unpublished true crime writer.

He doesn't speak until he's seated, a notepad, pen, and recorder before him. His voice is not his own. Instead, it's higher in pitch, softer. Calmer.]

Good afternoon, Sylar. My name is Robert Sprang. I'm doing some research for a book. Do you mind if I record our conversation today?

[fixesclocks]

[ Sylar studies the man in front of him quietly, like a predator assessing prey. Even without his power, the examination is calculating, considering every possibility, doing his best to read him. You get every type in New York--he's seen it all. This man has an air of desperation about him. Mustache and beard...not very modern. Out of touch. An author or a reporter or something equally vile.

But everyone has to do something, Gabriel. You were a clockmaker, after all.

Wonder what his power is. Everyone has one, and at least that thought would keep him occupied. ]

Please, don't mind me.

[ A glance toward the recording device. ]

You won't need your notepad. May I have it? The pen too, if you don't mind.

[ebony_mask]

[He's silent for a moment, watching Sylar's body language and face.

The man who killed the Batman.

He's not particularly striking. A bit nerdy, if anything, but definitely not a hardened psycho. Roman can't help but feel disappointed.

Tricks. Toys. Powers.

There's no way this Sylar took down the Bat like a man.

He considers the request, all too familiar with the push and pull games of power inmates play. He glances at the observation screen momentarily--he's more than capable of defending himself in the event Sylar decides to attack, of course.

Not to mention the security protocols here are years ahead of Arkham.]

Certainly.

[He turns on the recorder before offering the pad and pen to Sylar, then waits.]

[fixesclocks]

[ If Sylar could pull apart a pen and use it to stab guards in the throat and work his way to escape he would, but right now he only draws the pen to himself, flips the notepad over to one side and concentrates on the paper.

Blinks several times, growls, and bangs his fist and the pen down on the notepad, beginning to scribble furiously.

Despite the anger in his work, his voice is level and calm. ]

Start any time you like.